


The Bachelor

by marchh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: DATING SHOW AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchh/pseuds/marchh
Summary: Anthea and Sherlock conspire to get Mycroft onto a dating show not knowing about his secret affair with a certain consulting criminal. And it's only funny until Jim realizes that this means, in three months time, Mycroft will be married to a stranger.Meanwhile, Sherlock grapples withfeelings.





	1. Lights, cameras,

 

 

The cameras are trained on the lone figure in the center of the center of the room. Caucasian male, 6’1”, seated in a rickety metal and plastic chair. The room is dark, save for the two massive lights pointed at his face. 

 

The man in the chair futilely tries to blink the floodlights out of his eyes.

 

“Please state and spell your name for the record,” says a young woman in a black hoodie. Her dark hair is unwashed, rolled up into a messy bun. She stands at casual attention beside a taller, bearded man with glasses—her boss.

 

The man in the chair just stares straight ahead, uncooperative.

 

After a moment, the woman turns to her boss, eyes communicating a question of what to do next. He pastes on a smile and grabs a chair, dragging it over across the thick carpeted floor and plunking it down 

 

The boss nods and waves at the young woman to take a step back. “It’s fine,” he adds reassuringly.

 

“So,” he says, turning back to the prisoner in the chair. “Mycroft Holmes! The man behind the Transport Ministry. You’re all over the tabloids for Best Dressed in the government, and, I’m a huge fan, don’t get me wrong, though we can’t for the  _ life  _ of us figure out what it is you do. You’ve got a reference from the  _ Queen _ , though, so she must be loving your work.”

 

No response.

 

“So tell us, what made you want to be on The Bachelor?” asks the show producer, George Camembert. 

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes with a weary, practiced sort of disdain, and then gives the producer an almost martyred look.

 

“I  _ don’t _ want to be here,” he says. 

 

George trades a glance with his assistant producer, Veronica Silke. He clears his throat.

 

“You  _ are _ unattached, yes?”

 

“Ugh.” Not an answer, but telling enough.

 

“So um. We did see your audition tape, and we were under the impression that—ah, I see. You're in character already!”

 

Mycroft sits up a bit at that.

 

“Audition tape?”

 

George ignores the question and gives Mycroft a showbiz smile.

 

“Ah yes, the posh and polished politician who, behind his refined and icy exterior, is a romantic at heart. Prospective contestants have just  _ eaten up _ your story! We've seldom had such an easy time casting,” George says, really getting into the pitch as he speaks. Mycroft’s growing horror goes completely unnoticed as he barrels on.

 

“We’ve got the rich widows who just want to take care of you and show you what love is. There's a whole group of romantics ranging from the fiery to bohemian who are confident in being able to melt away that cold facade of yours. We have a couple of these pretty young socialites who have their eyes set on being a politician’s wife and if nothing they will at least be great for the drama and ratings. And out of those there's got to be a respectable girl or two, just think of the home visits! Now that I think of it, one of them  is a diplomat’s daughter.”

 

“Oh, and, almost forgot. About a third of suitors will be people you already know! Missed connections and finding unexpected love once you're out of your normal, day-to-day stuffy work settings and all that, what do you think of that?”

 

“What do I  _ think _ of that?” Mycroft asks. The horror in his voice and face is unmistakable, but George puts in valiant effort to ignore it.

 

“It was your brother’s idea,” George adds proudly.

 

“Look, Mr….”

 

“Camembert. Like the cheese, yes.”

 

“Mr. Camembert. I am unattached by choice. If I appear cold to my colleagues, that is also my professional, and personal, choice. I hold a position that requires a certain discretion on my part, and respect in return. What do you  _ think  _ I might think of seeing these  _ colleagues _ in a setting where, as your horrible tagline puts it, they're ‘setting out to win my heart?”

 

Mycroft's tone drips vitriol, but George is undeterred.  He turns to the cameraman and throws a thumbs up. 

 

“See? He'll make for great television.”

 

Mycroft sighs noisily, then straightens his jacket, making to stand and leave.

 

“You have to know there's no conceivable reason for me to ever agree to this.”

 

“Oh, that's already done and done!” the producer replies with a laugh, waving it off as a joke.

 

“Pardon?”

 

Veronica hands George a stapled stack of papers—a contract—and Mycroft leans over with some curiosity as George flips to the last page.

 

“See? Your signatures. You've already agreed to participating in the whole season, among other things.”

 

Mycroft snatches it out of his hands. 

 

_ “Let me see that.” _

 

He scans the document. This signee agrees to participate in 13 episodes, yadda yadda, option for a second season...signed by one Mycroft Holmes.

 

Not his hand. But it looks just like it.

 

_ Sherlock. _

 

Mycroft’s eyes snap back to George.

 

“This contract is preposterous. Agree to no phone or internet usage, living on some mansion with 12 other people plus crew,  _ cut off from the world for three months?! _ It practically amounts to slavery!”

 

George shrugs.  “Standard for reality TV, actually.”

 

“I have a  _ job _ .”

 

“Which the Queen personally pardoned you from.”

 

“The Qu—”

 

_. _

 

THE CULPRITS

 

“Mycroft,” she says. Frowning. Technically, she frowns often. But not at Mycroft.  _ Rarely _ at Mycroft.

 

This is, clear as day, a bad sign.

 

The Queen has requested is presence, and she is unhappy.

 

Mycroft sets his teacup down on the saucer, attempting for silence. Even Anthea, seated behind him, is quiet, fingers frozen atop the BlackBerry keyboard.

 

“How are you doing these days?” The question sounds innocent, but is clearly leading. 

 

If he answers positively, will she be further angered when she reprimands him for not taking care of state business in an appropriate sense? If he answers in the negative, will she worry and use that as an excuse to have him further socialized? 

 

“Wonderful, ma’am.”

 

They wait.

 

The Queen sighs.

 

She leans forward, just a fraction, in her chair, and peers up at Mycroft. He leans in too, to listen. Anthea leans over minutely, eyes still trained on the screen she’s not actually looking at.

 

“Look now, young man. Not so young now, actually, which is rather the point.”

 

Sweat beads along Mycroft’s hairline. 

 

“I’m starting to worry about you.”

 

Mycroft gulps.

 

“You’re pushing middle age, my dear. Still unmarried. Not even dating! And with the stress piling up of looking after that troublemaking brother of yours.”

 

Oh  _ Sherlock _ . Always ruining everything.

 

“We simply  _ must _ do something about this.”

 

Mycroft opens his mouth to say  _ what _ , he doesn’t know. Something empty, but placating. 

 

But before he gets the chance, the loud  _ SCREECH! _ of one of these heavy chairs on the stone floor sounds. Anthea pushes to her feet and  _ clack-clack-clack _ s over. 

 

“Ma’am!” she says, standing at attention suddenly beside Mycroft’s chair. Mycroft looks up to see her gripping her BlackBerry so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t cracked.

 

“Don’t worry,” Anthea insists. Mycroft squints at her. She is vibrating with excitement. Her eyes are glowing. The vivacity of her stance communicates,  _ My time has come. _

 

“I know  _ just the thing _ .”

 

.

 

THE TAPE

 

Mycroft Holmes sits behind a massive, mahogany desk, fingering a slim, top-secret file with the casual ease of a professional pianist warming up with a page of Scarlatti. 

 

From the viewer’s position, his eyelashes cast an almost coy angle across his eyes. It’s almost too pretty, and the cameraperson must agree, because they refuse to pull away from his face and instead, centimeter by centimeter, approach closer.

 

It’s actually jarring when it stops, the image of Mycroft suddenly replaced by a black screen.

 

Text appears, reading Mycroft Holmes, followed by his age, his jargony government title, birthday and sun sign.

 

Tasteful classical music plays over a quick clip of Mycroft commanding some sort of board room, of him dismissing an equerry, of him sitting down across from the Queen herself for tea.

 

The montage abruptly stops. 

 

It’s a close up of Mycroft’s face, and he looks displeased.

 

“Jonathan,” he says. “I don’t know care what your mother must have said to you every time you went out her door, but please, for all that is good in the world, do not let those blatant lies about your abilities engorge your ego and cast a shadow of misfortune over the rest of us who have to actually deal with the realities of your incompetence. Please be so kind as to turn in your resignation by the end of the hour. Clara will accept it on your way out.”

 

It cuts to the face of who must be “Jonathan,” a sandy-haired young man, whose eyes fill with fear. 

 

And then this happens, in various forms, another three to five times.

 

Then—his profile. 

 

Nothing happens for a long beat. He stares out the tinted window of a car, and sighs. The angle of his leather gloved hand is beautiful.

 

A different day, a different suit. He turns to his brother.

 

“I’m not lonely, Sherlock.”

 

He strides purposefully through a park, the last vestiges of sunlight doing wonders for his coloring.

 

Abruptly, he stops. Glances to the side.

 

The camera pans too, misleading the viewer into believing he has stopped to glance upon a young couple taking a walk with baby in a stroller. Back to Mycroft—with a small wistful smile on his face, which quickly drops away only to be replaced by the haughty, dutiful expression we’ve become used to.

 

.

 

THE CONSPIRATORS

 

_ Anthea _

_ I’ve got the goods. _

 

Sherlock glances at his phone, does a little victory fist pump in the air, and then sets to firing off his replies with both hands.

 

_ Me _

_ Excellent. SH _

 

_ Come immediately. SH _

 

_ 221B. SH _

 

_ I’ve got the pen. SH _

  
  


_ Anthea _

_ “Let’s make lots of money?” _

_ You don’t have to sign every text, you know. _

_ You’re also allowed to text more than 10 characters at a time.  _

 

_ Me _

_ Why aren’t  _

_ you here yet???? SH _

  
  


A knock comes from the front door and John stands, out of habit, to open the door. Unexpectedly, Sherlock barrels into him on his way over and the two of them crash and roll into the doorway, having haphazardly been able to reach the doorknob before the collision took them off their feet.

 

Anthea stares.

 

“Is this how you greet all the clients?” she asks.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, the same time John answers, “No.”

 

She waits until they’ve righted themselves.

 

John goes for his chair, then notices that Sherlock, bouncing on his toes, has not. 

 

Anthea slowly reaches for something in her coat—and then quick as anything—draws something out from the inner pocket. 

 

An iPhone.

 

Sherlock gasps audibly. “Oh, you naughty girl.”

 

“Um,” John says. “Can someone explain to me what is going on?”

 

“It’s of national importance, John,” Sherlock says, not looking at him.

 

“I uh, gathered as much, seeing that she’s your brother’s assistant, but—is that a video of Mycroft?”

 

The three of them lean over the phone to watch the clandestinely taped videos.

 

.

 

THREE WEEKS LATER

 

_ Anthea _

_ The reel was a BRILLIANT!!! Success _

 

_ Me _

_ Of course it was. SH _

 

_ Anthea _

_ I’ve got the contract. _

 

_ Me _

_ Still got the pen. SH _

 

_ They didn’t need in-person? SH _

 

_ Oh, what am I saying. With a reel like that? Of course not. SH _

  
  
  



	2. Please fix it for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: Mycroft was actually looking wistfully at the churros cart, before mentally berating himself for being _so weak_ to sugary goods

 

  
  


Back in the privacy of his personal office, under lock and key, Mycroft sinks into the soft leather of his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

 

He’d half a mind to call Sherlock, and lecture his ear off about  _ identity theft _ and  _ privacy _ and taking this  _ little prank a dozen steps too far. _

 

Call Anthea in, perhaps, and find out  _ just _ how exactly Sherlock could have gotten his hands on an  _ audition tape _ .

 

Call the Queen, even, and protest the lunacy of all this, and find a way out.

 

….call his Russian contact, perhaps, and stir up enough trouble so that they would keep him working the job 24/7 well into the shooting date. 

 

Instead he sits, face in hand, eyes closed, lamenting the throng of busybodies so intent on matchmaking him. He holds onto hope that the show producers will, in the light of day tomorrow, realize he is  _ not _ good television, and all of this will go away.

 

...he considers calling a certain newspaper proprietor, and asking if perhaps he has contacts in television who could tidy this up for him.

 

Mycroft sighs, noisily, inelegantly, and reaches for his phone. The number he wants isn’t entered into his phone, but he knows it by heart and by muscle memory and dials it easily. 

 

It’s answered on the second ring.

 

“Aw, poor baby.” A happy laugh. “I saw the tape. Little brother had a conspirator, didn’t he? Even I haven’t seen you  _ give orders _ when you’re heading a  _ task force _ .”

 

“Jim,” Mycroft says, nearly plaintive. “It’s not funny.”

 

“Are you kidding me? This is the very definition of funny.” 

 

“ _ Ugh. _ ”

 

“Hmmmmmm. Having to deal with all these people trying to get into your pants. How dreadful. What torture. 

 

“Please fix it for me,” Mycroft says. Jim can practically hear him pouting.

 

“If you’re calling to check whether I’m up for an open relationship, well…”

 

“You make people disappear, don’t you?” Mycroft complains, and he is complaining now, more than anything. It’s not so much a call for a favor as it is a good old whinge to a sympathetic (questionably, now, perhaps) ear. “Make me disappear.”

 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Jim says. 

 

“When I try to whisk you away for a weekend in Santorini it’s  _ irresponsible _ and  _ illegal _ and  _ you have the worst timing, Jim, they thought I was dead _ , but when  _ youuu _ want a getaway, suddenly it’s just you snapping your fingers, and expecting a pretty little private jet waiting, huh?”

 

“Jim.”

 

“No thought about allll the trouble I have to go through to rent out a hotel, or clear out the beach during tourist season. Tourist season, Mycroft!”

 

“ _ Jim. _ ”

 

“You think this all just happens without planning?”

 

“Alright, alright,” Mycroft concedes. If Jim wants an apology, he’ll get one. But it’s too late. Jim is on a roll.

 

“Well, nope. Sorry, honey, but we’re fresh out of kidnappings here. Bye!”

 

The line goes dead. 

 

Mycroft lowers his head with a  _ thunk _ to the hardwood desk.

 

.

 

Jim turns off his phone display and tosses it onto the coffee table, still trying to rein in his giggles.

 

He picks up the remote to start up his pirated copy of Mycroft’s so-called audition reel once again. That assistant of his had a pretty good eye…

 

The video starts up, and then a loud  _ creak _ sounds. Jim holds up a finger to his mouth without turning to look at Sebastian Moran, his sniper who’s just stepped on the creaky floorboard, crossing the room with freshly used rifles in tow.

 

“SHHHH.”

 

Sebastian glances at the television.

 

“Is that that government bloke?”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“I didn’t say—is he going to be in a movie or something?”

 

“ _ The Bachelor. _ ”

 

Sebastian does a weird impression of a fish, as he tries to figure out what he’s going to say.

 

“That show? The dating one?”

 

“Ye _ p _ .”

 

“So he’s getting married...?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“That dating show, right, where they have some bloke and a bunch of people throwing themselves at him, and then at the end of the season there’s a wedding.”

 

“There’s a what now.”

 

Jim squints at him.

 

“Like, every week, they send one of the, what’s it called. Suitors? Suitresses? home. And then when there’s only two of them left, it’s like this big deal. Last year they flew the three of ‘em out to Santorini. And then, he sends one of them home, and the other gets a rose,”

 

“Sebastian, what the everloving fuck are you talking about?”

 

“I’m  _ getting _ there. So there’s the last two right, and the Bachelor, and then the one he picks, the last one out of the twelve, they have a wedding. Right there. On the spot.”

 

Jim squints even more. 

 

“Last year, the two girls left, they picked out wedding dresses before the final dates.”

 

Jim keeps squinting.

 

“Are you all right? D’you need eyedrops?”

 

Jim says nothing, and after a moment reaches for his phone. 

 

“Siri, Google ‘The Bachelor.’”

 

“Googling ‘The Bachelor.’”

 

Sebastian stifles a sigh, then stalks off with the guns. He doesn’t want to be around for when he reads the results and throws a hissy fit. 

 

He makes it all the way to his room before he hears something heavy crash into either the wall or floor, and then Jim hissing.

 

“A fucking  _ wedding _ .”

  
  
  
  
  



	3. But think of England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um so full disclosure I don’t actually know much about the bachelor. In fact, I’ve never actually seen the bachelor. BUT. I have seen literally every season of Unreal so I feel like I’ve got this. (!)

“Move, move, move it, people!” George hollers, waving his arms like an air traffic controller directing the flow of teamsters and trailers and crew. He  _ needs _ to be loud, to be heard over the din of the approaching helicopter.

 

He rubs his hands together, jogging toward the helipad painted on the south end of the massive backyard of the oversized midcentury-style mansion they’d purchased in the middle of nowhere.

 

It really was like Mycroft said—with show participants having no access to phone or internet while all the way out here, they were for better or worse cut off from the real world, and would remain so over the next three months while they filmed the season.

 

Of course, in this day and age, there were always a tricky few trying to sneak electronics in. Even more so with a workaholic Bachelor like Mycroft Holmes, and a tech mogul and member of law enforcement within the ranks. 

 

But that’s why George has Sherlock Holmes.

 

The aircraft lands, and George pastes on his best handling-the-talent smile. The chopper winds down and the pilot hops out, his PA hops out, and then there is just Mycroft Holmes, sitting in the back, still strapped in, expressionless. 

 

“Mr. Holmes!” George calls, too loud, climbing in the helicopter and knowing even with the ear protectors on Mycroft can read lips. 

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes heaven-high and wonders which deity he has offended to invoke such heavy-handed retribution.

 

Unbeknownst to him, at that very moment a scope is trained on him from afar, watching his every move from above. 

 

.

 

THE MANSION ATTIC

 

“So you're saying, that, what, the fate of our great nation lies on getting your brother hitched?” John asks skeptically.

 

Sherlock and Anthea are facing away from him, looking out the window. Sherlock is crouched behind a telescope and Anthea is standing with a pair of binoculars. 

 

“The eagle has landed,” she confirms mysteriously.

 

“He's not much of an eagle,” Sherlock says, “but John, yes, that's exactly right.”

 

“Here, he's really more of an ostrich,” Sherlock says, pulling out his phone to group text Anthea and John a photo of a petulant baby ostrich, and then a photo of his brother’s scornful expression. There really is a bit of resemblance. 

 

“Hilarious,” Anthea says evenly before pocketing her phone again, “but I'm not referring to anyone by the codename  _ Ostrich. _ ”

 

“Then he is certainly rubbing off on you as you are becoming no fun.”

 

“Sherlock, why are you texting us when we're  _ right here?” _

 

“So you'll be able to compare Mycroft to a flightless bird for posterity.”

 

“Oh! He did it! The eagle has left the roost. Good on you, George.”

 

“Can you two  _ please _ explain why we are here. We're not just going to hole up in the attic for three months spying on your brother, are we?”

 

The two turn on him, and the weight of their combined scrutiny makes John take a step back.

 

“What?”

 

“John, you brought the shoes I requested?”

 

“Um. Yeah.”

 

Sherlock turns to Anthea.

 

“The only salvageable part of his wardrobe, I did warn you, to be fair.”

 

Anthea just nods, and nods vigorously. Then she strides past John and throws open a wardrobe he hadn't even noticed by the door, and turns back to them with a gleam in her eye.

 

“I believe it's time for a makeover.”

 

.

 

Two hours later John’s hair is as styled as it has ever been, barring that one time in his youth where he briefly sported a mohawk, and he's not sure he's seen the man in the mirror before.

 

He's clad in a leather jacket, a dark blue shirt that looks more like something Sherlock might own than him with his closet full of jumpers (though it is sinfully soft and Anthea had waxed poetic about the fibers of whatever this was), and trousers that really actually amaze him the most because John has never been unhappy with his looks, per se, but he is, let's face it, short. But these trousers. These  _ trousers.  _ He can't stop looking at his own legs.

 

Sherlock and Anthea look at him expectantly.

 

“Well?” they ask together, like creepy twin children.

 

John doesn't know what to say.

 

“Hell, I'd do him,” he stutters, gesturing to the mirror. That's really not what he meant to say.

 

Anthea smiles smugly and Sherlock sighs, mock dramatic.

 

“And there's John in a nutshell, not gay, but would shag his own reflection.”

 

“Hey,” John protests reasonably, because they all know that is a completely unfair characterization. When has John  _ ever _ navel gazed? Leave it to Sherlock to confuse his companions for himself. 

 

“I just don't like labels.” He straightens his jacket, and turns a bit to see what it's like from the back angle. “I prefer to believe that sexuality is fluid.”

 

“Did you read that in a pamphlet?” Anthea rolls her eyes, but Sherlock isn't even listening anymore, texting up a storm instead.

 

“The opening ceremony is beginning,” he says urgently. “Hurry, we've got to get John downstairs.”

 

“Hey,” John protests, as he tries to keep up with his long-legged friend down the stairs, “you two still haven't told me what this is about.”

 

He nearly crashes into Sherlock, who has shipped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs and dramatically turned to face him, in a way that allows his coat to billow about spectacularly.

 

“You, John, need to woo my brother,” Sherlock says solemnly. “Do it for England.”

 

“I'm sorry, what?”

 

“Rest assured, I do not need you to win his hand in marriage. I just need you to make it as far as the final three so you can help keep an eye on him.”

 

“I'm sorry,  _ what? _ Do we not have a secret service for this kind of, I don't know, protecting the government secrets in his brain, or whatever?”

 

John has further protests, but they're cut short as Sherlock looms over him and claps both hands on John’s shoulders heavily, nearly enough to knock him off his feet.

 

“There are bodyguards around who will protect Mycroft's head, yes, but I need you to protect his heart, John.”

 

“Protect—I—what?”

 

“Oh, do keep up, John. Out of all the TV-picked contestants here, some of them must only want him for his money because I'm not sure who would want him for his body - oh, hm, perhaps there are fetishists amongst us—”

 

“Sherlock!” John says in his exasperated-by-Sherlock’s-antics voice. “Are you trying to get your brother laid or are you trying to cockblock him? You can't have your cake and eat it too.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. 

 

“ _ Don't  _ let him near the cake,” Sherlock says, and then he's steering John into the massive and overdone sitting room where he suddenly finds himself facing a room full of other suitors, a million lights, and a whole crew with cameras and mics, and he still has not gotten any clear answers out of his flatmate (ex-flatmate now, he supposes, seeing as he'll be living here for the next three months).

 

He gulps.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to go with S2 John. And thus this is roughly set in S2. Like a parallel crack universe but yeah.


	4. Behind the curtain

“Alright, guys, we’re skipping the traditional meet and greet and going straight to the party and mingling,” Veronica says into her walkie-talkie. The crew knows this, of course, but part of her job is to keep things up to date, up to scratch, be on the ball, et. cetera. Their bachelor here is a shy one, and would be most comfortable vetting the contestants himself, preferably one-on-one, in a ritualized, formalized setting like tea.

 

Which is why they’re going to throw him into the deep end straight away with the party instead.

 

Having him greet arrivals is a complete no-go; he’d either refuse, or be so dry and unlikable they’d tank the ratings straightaway and even scare the contestants off. No, they have to right away put the Bachelor at a disadvantage, letting the suitors feel they had the upper hand. Give them that reassurance and add that extra oomph to their confidence so they would go on pursuing the Bachelor at full force.

 

And thus, Mycroft stands in the center of the open space in the mansion’s first floor. There are chandeliers, palm trees, Persian rugs, and massive floral bouquets. It is a chaotic jungle of soul-punching color. There is so much sensual texture, with the plush furniture and velvety petals and water-like glass that one could drown in hedonistic imagery just standing still. Not to even mention the throng of dressed up bodies circling the edges.

 

Not Mycroft though.

 

Mycroft stands nearly catatonic, untouched drink in hand, trying to reign in his horror.

 

(He is probably screaming internally).

 

(The decor is truly a nightmare.)

 

One camera is trained on him while the others follow various contestants around the room. Many of the contestants are already talking to and getting to know each other, and nearly all of them are glancing over at Mycroft, trying to catch his eye so as to have an excuse to walk over, though none have yet tried. He looks far too stiff for anyone to approach without making a scene.

 

John clears his throat.

 

People murmur.

 

“Hey,” John says, standing right in front of Mycroft.

 

Mycroft eyes him head to toe and up again.

 

“John Watson,” Mycroft says evenly. He might be having the worst time of his life, but he's got going to let that break his composure. “I assume my brother has something to do with this.”

 

John smiles that same Bad Accomplice smile he gave Mycroft when Sherlock had decidedly not been looking for the missile plans Mycroft asked him to. He just as likely has no idea what is really happening this time as well, but is trying to help. Whatever _help_ means.

 

“You could say that,” John says, and he sees the irony of it as well, “he um, wants me to keep an eye on you. Yeah. Tables have turned, haven’t they?”

 

“Six cameras in this room, and he wants _you_ , Dr. Watson, to _keep an eye on me_.”

 

John tongues the inside of his cheek, a quirk when annoyed, but blinks and smiles. He's trying to be polite for everyone's sake.

 

“Yes, he seems to have gotten it into his head that you'll find true love here, and that should _you_ get too in over your head with some golddigger, I can intervene. Not sure how he got the idea that it's even possible for Mycroft Holmes to be swept off his feet.”

 

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“But hey, a dozen suitors, or well, eleven, if you don't count me, trying to win your hand. Quite the ego boost? You make it look like you're heading down to death row.”

 

“When did I give either you or Sherlock _any indication_ that I may like to be romanced by a crowd of strangers on national television?” Mycroft tries to angle away from the cameras and keep his voice low. He'd long gotten rid of the mic they fitted him with.

 

“Dunno, maybe the fact that you're a drama queen. Sherlock actually does worry for you, you know, thinks you have no friends, work too long hours, that you're probably lonely. Roses and bubbly and all the pomp and circumstance probably seemed to him right up your alley.”

 

“I am a _very private person,_ ” Mycroft hisses back, voice cracking just barely, just enough that his genuine horror slips through.

 

At this point the room is suspiciously quiet, with everyone discretely trying to lean closer to hear the conversation. Veronica signals to her cameramen to angle in for a closer shot, a read on their bachelor’s lips, and John angles the two of them so as to position Mycroft facing away from the following cameras. He’s a bit startled that Mycroft is so shaken he hadn’t thought to do so himself.

 

John bites his lip.

 

“You could always, I don’t know, do that deduction thing you two do, scare off the suitors, make for boring TV, perhaps get the producers to change their mind?” John suggests.

 

Mycroft looks no less horrified as he scans the crowd, briefly wondering how many of them he could make cry, or stomp off set, if he was as shameless as his brother. Inherently, he knows he would never be comfortably causing such a scene in public—and this _was_ very public. All these lights. All these cameras.

 

He knew one of the few reasons he wasn’t freaking out (more, at least) was that he felt he still had a chance to, perhaps, keep the tapes from airing once all the filming wrapped up. This whole endeavor didn’t sit quite right with him, even with his brother’s meddling aside, and he didn’t quite know what it was yet, but he would figure it out soon enough.

 

His mask of composure must have become convincing once again, because John pats him on the arm, and then walks off to get himself a drink. He sticks close enough to keep a clear view of Mycroft, but seems to be done trying to talk to him.

 

.

 

THE PRODUCER’S ROOM

 

George watches intently, trying not to laugh or cringe, as Mycroft tries to make nice with Isabel, the Austrian diplomat’s daughter.

 

Now, contrary to Mycroft's audition tape, he is not normally a callous man. He is dignified, reserved, restrained. It is only around loved ones that he dares to let that veneer crack, to kick back and throw joking barbs. And if it means that, as it were, he is the most prickly around those he cares for most, after near-40 years of doing so, old habits become hard to break.

 

(Incidentally, the audition tape was created by those closest to Mycroft and well aware of this phenomenon. They find the dichotomy hilarious.)

 

So now their bachelor is veering so hard into polite conversation lane that rather than a first conversation it sounds like he is at work, and has been hassled into entertaining the diplomat’s daughter in the waiting room while the diplomat takes an urgent call from his wife.

 

Oh the girl tries. She starts out with a demure look and then a flirtatious smile and she asks questions about Mycroft, but all she’s getting in return is trivia about Austrian politics. She’s getting annoyed. She’s gripping the stem of her champagne flute so hard it might snap.

 

For George, this is like getting a root canal.

 

“We can’t use any of this,” he groans to his technicians. “The only way this is going to work is if he really hits it off with one or two of the other contestants. And even then it’s not going to look good for us to offend a trade ally of the Queen’s when she’s giving us _such generous tax breaks_. Someone get Oliver on the phone.”

 

.

 

THE MINGLING

 

Things are no better close up.

 

“So, you’re a politician?” Isabel asks, quirking her lips in a smile small. She doesn’t quite flutter her eyelashes, but she does that slow-blink thing girls her age all seem to have mastered, and pushes her blond curls back over her shoulder.

 

Mycroft smiles too, but it’s the kind of smile you give your coworker’s young child. She is half his age. He is in a setting where he is highly spooked. There was no chance in hell he was going to Go There.

 

He briefly takes her hand as she offers it and releases it just as quickly.

 

“Ah, Ms… Isabel,” he says, conscious of the fact that only first names are used on the show, nevermind that his own full name is no doubt plastered over every tabloid and entertainment gossip site now. “We’ve never met, but I’ve had the pleasure of working with your father on various trade agreements and as one of the wealthiest countries in the EU I can tell you it is no small relief that he is such a reasonable man to deal with. Would you be surprised to learn that just a few years ago, Austrian machinery for transport was one of your highest exports?”

 

Isabel’s eyes start to glaze over.

 

Veronica is trying to watch the scene from between her fingers. It is so painful. So, so painful.

 

Doesn’t mean she breathes any easier when the girl finally gives up and slinks away, leaving the redheaded Charlotte to fawn over their bachelor as he says nothing of substance.

 

“I love the great outdoors. Hiking, skiing, riding, all of it. Mycroft, do you hunt?”

 

“No,” he says, with a smile, and then takes a drink.

 

After that conversation peters off, Mycroft turns around and his polite mask freezes on his face as he wills himself for the umpeenthtime this evening to not display abject horror.

 

Sherlock’s Detective Inspector friend is here as well.

 

As is his friend from the morgue.

 

And that forensics fellow.

 

Good God, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t here too, was she?

 

His first thought is to turn away before any of them get the idea to come talk to him—putting on diplomacy in front of complete strangers is one thing—handling his brother’s acquaintances after they’ve shared enough embarrassing history between the three of them will be considerably more difficult. And these lights are starting to make him sweat.

 

But it’s too late.

 

He locks eyes with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade—who, by the looks of it, isn’t quite ready for a confrontation either.

 

They both freeze, deer in headlights from across the room.

 

Neither makes a move.

 

And after a moment, it’s clear to them both neither is planning to. Mutual understanding crosses between the two men. Now is not the time. There must be some reason Sherlock wants us both here and against all reason we are both weak to his whims. But let us delay the inevitable humiliation just a bit longer.

 

A minute nod, and the two again turn away.

 

The next intrepid contestant to approach is a scarf-wearing, bearded documentary filmmaker names David who gestures expansively when he talks.

 

“I must confess, I’m quite the film aficionado myself,” Mycroft adds politely, all the while knowing that this New Age director likely has far different tastes from him. But who knows, maybe spending hours seated in silence watching films would be a tolerable use of these horrid dates he would inevitably have to go on.

 

David’s eyes light up at that, and he pats his pockets before remembering he no longer has his phone on him and can’t show Mycroft his latest clips.

 

“Picture this,” he says instead. “An empty, abandoned street in Croydon.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, in a ‘go on’ kind of manner, when David takes a pause too long.

 

“There’s graffiti on the fence.”

 

“Uh-huh…”

 

“A plastic bag blows into frame, bounces once, twice, then out again.”

 

“....uh-huh…”

 

“Nothing happens.”

 

“....”

 

“A crow drops in briefly. It is gone again.”

 

Mycroft tries really hard not to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“Sounds...tasking,” he says.

 

“ _Oh_ yeah,” David says. “Took me days to get just the perfect shot. I mean, there is just so much _symbolism_ that needs to happen. Just the right moment. Just the right time. A bit like love, you know what I mean?”

 

“Uh-huh…”

 

Veronica is near tears. She throws her hands up and gives in, turning around to the drinks bar to drown her anxiety.

 

“All of this will be _really funny_ come the end of the season, when he’s sappy in love with whichever one of these _lucky souls_ and we’ve got shots of them staring lovingly into each others eyes and wondering how they ever lived without each other,” she mutters. “They will make _memes_ of this episode, and I will win an award.”

 

And when she turns back again, the bachelor is gone.

 

.

 

MYCROFT TRIES TO GET A BREATHER

 

As much as mingling with goldfish can be tedious, Mycroft is well practiced in this delicate dance. Mycroft could do this all day.

 

Given that he then gets to isolate himself and speak to no one save his assistant via text for the next three days afterwards.

 

The thought of being monitored and socialized with everyone here for the next three months makes him want to cry, and the last time Mycroft cried he’s pretty sure he was 9 months old.

 

So he walks toward the edge of the room, hoping for some reprieve underneath one of these big palm trees. Imagine his surprise when he ends up falls straight through the leaves.

 

.

 

THE UNAUTHORIZED ROOMS

 

Someone’s grabbed his arms and jerked him through a wood paneled door obscured by the vegetation back in the party room. Unlike the bright and colorful room before him, this one is a dark little study. The lights are off but the window is open, and under the outdoor lamppost light filtered in through the window, Mycroft comes face to face with Jim.

 

He stares.

 

Jim smiles, then brushes some imaginary lint off Mycroft’s shoulder.

 

“Couldn’t really wrap my head around the idea of someone else getting their hands on you, so I decided to show up,” he says.

 

Mycroft stares.

 

“What? Not happy to see me?”

 

Mycroft clenches his hand in some aborted movement.

 

“Are you here to get me out of this, Jim?” he asks impatiently.

 

Jim gives him a funny look.

 

“So quickly? I’ve barely had my fun yet. And why is it up to me to get you out of this?” He takes a look around the room.

 

“Seems like someone with all the might of the British Empire at his beck and call could make a something as trivial as a _dating show_ get off his back if he _really wanted to_ ,” Jim adds with a dark look.

 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it is _your_ fault I’m in this mess after all?” Mycroft shoots back.

 

"My fault? My fault? You can't blame me for every inconvenience in your life just because I've got a record, Mr. Holmes, awfully prejudiced of you."

 

"You were the one who insisted the relationship be kept secret," Mycroft sighs, barely above a whisper.

 

"Really? Doesn't sound like me."

 

Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and produces his phone. He unlocks it, swipes around, and then what sounds like a muffled, illicit recording of a porno starts to play.

 

There's a few seconds of heavy breathing, the wet smack of what must be lips, and then, unmistakably, Jim's voice, all low and hot and bothered.

 

"I swear to God if anyone, anyone finds out we've been seeing each other I'll have you shot and stuffed and on permanent display in a children's museum."

 

Mycroft stops the audio player.

 

Jim stares at the phone.

 

"So. I. Threaten you to keep it a secret.... and your first instinct is to carry evidence of it on your person?" Jim frowns.

 

"Insurance, I suppose. Didn't want to get complacent and clean up so much that if you reneged on your word I'd be... caught alone with my pants down."

 

Jim grins and claps him on the shoulder. "Can't say for sure which one of us is more paranoid. Don't worry, I'm joining the cast under an alias."

 

Mycroft lets himself look mortified this time. Jim holds out his arms in a _ta-da!_ Gesture.

 

“Meet Jim L., financial consultant and accountant. I’ve done pretty well for myself, and spend most of the year traveling.”

 

"Your alias is _Jim_?"

 

"Jim L. It's really not the same. There's already a Jim G. but you should cut him as soon as possible."

 

Mycroft stares at him for so long Jim’s cheery expression starts to falter.

 

"You're not kidding," Mycroft finally says, before lowering his face into his hands.  "Oh, dear Lord."

 

“Hey,” Jim says with a frown. “You should be happy, no _ecstatic,_ that I’m not leaving you to deal with this yourself.”

 

“What year is it? What planet am I on? Have I passed into the afterlife, is this hell?” Mycroft laments.

 

“Hell wouldn’t have all those cocktail shrimp they’ve got out there,” Jim says, patting him on the arm. “You’re such a drama queen, this is perfect for you. C’mon, let’s go give them a show.”

 

Mycroft holds his head in his hands for a long moment, then takes a deep breath and recomposes himself. He smooths down the lapels of his jacket and gives Jim a calm look.

 

“I think not,” he says smoothly. “You may do whatever you wish, as you always do. But I am going to, well, go back out there.”

 

Jim gives Mycroft a suspicious look as he opens the door.

 

“I will go, and give this little dating roulette a try. Who knows? I might find true love.”

 

And then he closes the door behind him, leaving Jim in the dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If we've learned anything from The Good Place, it's that hell is full of cocktail shrimp


	5. Alone in the dark

Jim stares after Mycroft, and watches the door close. It’s a polite and civil  _ thunk _ , quiet and unobtrusive. Nothing like the kind of door slam he felt tumultuous goodbyes were supposed to end on. 

 

So.

 

What?

 

Were they… over now? Was it even possible to “break up” if the two of them had never been officially anything? (That was what Mycroft was saying, wasn’t he, with the proof-of-blackmail and the this-is-your-fault-I’m-on-a-dating show.)

 

He’s always thought there’d be more, more  _ cacophony _ to the exit, when it finally came. Breaking china and table flipping and door slamming, the figurative fourth movement timpanis and giant cymbal crashes of their symphony, and he would be the conductor of it all. 

 

This didn’t sit quite right with him. 

 

_ Goodbye Jim, _ he’d said (he didn’t),  _ I’m going to go find true love now. _

 

Jim scratched his chin. Mycroft isn’t the  _ finding true love _ type. He had his soft and vulnerable moments, sure, but he wasn’t so deluded so as to think he could become a romantic sort of person himself, Jim was pretty sure. 

 

But.

 

On the off chance that he was, oh, going through a mid-life crisis or whatnot. And that he really did think he was going to find someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with on this dumb show.

 

Well. Jim wasn’t going to miss it for the world. Oh no, he’d be right up there with front row seats, because if he didn’t see it with his own eyes, he was never going to believe it.

 

(And, well, if Mycroft was open to such delusions of the heart—maybe Jim has a chance after all.)

 


	6. Knock your socks off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sry for the slowness, plot decided to happen  
> haven't decided whether to continue posting short snippets or do like a 1 chapter = 1 'episode' thing?? lemme know what you think

As soon as Mycroft closes the door behind him he’s awash with guilt. He wants to go back. He is really too old and too tired to be playing the sort of mind games he just insinuated.

 

At the same time, he knows he’s probably just a fling. And this shame/guilty/confusion/lonely cocktail of emotions is not something he wants to partake in, ever again.

 

He doesn’t feel often (he is good at pushing things away), nor deeply (or ignoring them), and certainly not this ugly combination of things.

 

Yet it’s frequent after interactions with Jim, which are apt to inspire spiraling highs just as often as self-loathing lows.

 

He doesn’t want to do this forever.

 

And what better way to get over it than to take his chances on the horde of people waiting just out there? In showbiz, it’s either feast or famine, and they’ve bet ridiculously high ratings on Mycroft with a group of 30-some handpicked suitors that have been vetted by both traditional matchmaking strategies and The Sherlock Holmes Method (feat. Anthea). The chances of him meeting someone not completely intolerable (the filmmaker _had_ to have been thrown in for comedic effect) are not zero.

 

Even if it was just for a rebound.

 

“Remember, they’re all here for you,” George had said. Mycroft had been getting out of the helicopter, wanting to be anywhere but here. And at the time, he didn’t believe the man. They were here for their fifteen minutes of fame, for recognition, for attention, and yes, alright, there were a couple misguided souls here thinking they might find love. But they weren’t here because of Mycroft.

 

He blinked.

 

But they were here _for_ Mycroft.

 

They were here for Mycroft’s perusal, for his decisions. For him to gauge whether…

 

Whether what he had with Jim was real.

 

Whether he could form a real connection with anyone else.

 

.

 

THE PRODUCER’S ROOM

 

“Oliver, I’m going to have to call you back,” George says, hanging up and pushing a tech out of his chair to get a better look at the screens.

 

“What is going on here?” George asks. “How did this happen? _Who_ made this happen?”

 

The tech just shrugs, but George watches, enraptured. Because on screen, he’s witnessing a miracle.

 

Their Bachelor has come out of his shell, no, more than that—he’s charming the pants off these contestants.

 

.

 

THE CHARM

 

“I’m Janine,” a lovely, tall brunette says, holding her hand out for Mycroft to take. And he does, never once breaking eye contact with her. Her smile is flirty, and Mycroft returns it with a similar warmth.

 

Veronica is nearly having an aneurysm.

 

“I work in PR, but, actually, I’m looking to start my own magazine,” Janine says by way of introduction. “It’s been a dream of mine for years now.”

 

“Ah, much more interesting than listening to me drone on about transportation. You long to work in editorial; a woman with something to say,” Mycroft says.

 

“Yes, plenty!” she answers with a laugh.

 

“And the know-how to turn it into a successful commercial endeavor,” Mycroft adds. Her mouth drops open in not quite a gasp, closer to an aborted statement, and she slaps him on the arm.

 

“I heard you would do that, how do you do that?” she asks.

 

“Do what?” Mycroft takes a drink to mask feeling completely out of his depth. He did not _chat up_ attractive career women. He didn’t _date_ or try to _meet people._ He just wanted to go home.

 

“That,” she laughs, “telling everything about a person’s life just by a look.”

 

“You make me sound like a fortune teller, my goodness.”

 

.

 

There is arm touching and laughing and then Mycroft is walking Janine back into the central area, her arm entwined in his.

 

Jim steps out just in time to see the two cozied up together from across the room, and has to stop himself from causing a scene.

 

It is only the _first episode_ , he reminds himself. And contestants who get too much attention the first episode tend to go home early in the season.

 

.

 

Mycroft approaches the detective inspector once again, nearly startling him from behind, sending his drink down the wrong pipe.

 

“Gregory, my apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, patting the man on his back.

 

Greg is flustered, not sure where to put his drinks or his arms or anything at all really, and Mycroft courteously relieves him of the glass he’d been holding, while Greg puts both hands on his hips - and then starts, remembering he is not a policeman set to interrogate a hostile witness.

 

He ends up crossing his arms, sticking his hands underneath his armpits, to prevent further limb movement and embarrassment.

 

“Mycroft! Fancy seeing you here,” he says, immediately mentally kicking himself. It was the man’s own show! _Fancy seeing him here_ . He was such an _idiot_ in front of good looking people, as Sherlock was always reminding him.

 

But Mycroft just smiles gently, not even drawing attention to his awkward word fumbling.

 

“I’m sorry if I put you off earlier,” Mycroft says, voice soft and low, and very pleasant. “Stepping off the aircraft, and into the mansion, seeing all these people gathered here in one room together for the first time. It was a shock.”

 

“Yeah,” Greg says, eyes wide at the thought. “I can imagine.”

 

“I must confess, it was a moment of tremendous self-doubt,” Mycroft confides in him, the two of them having stepped into a more private alcove without Greg’s noticing it. Veronica is breathless as the cameras capture a perfectly framed moment underneath the big, shaded leaves and branches twined with heart-shaped ivy.

 

“I began to wonder whether all of this could have a point, what a room full of strangers could possibly want with me. I was momentarily buoyed by the fact that, if they were all to be strangers, perhaps I would not be starting off in the red. As a colleague of my brother’s you are one of the unfortunate few to have seen me at my lowest.”

 

“And -” Mycroft takes a breath. “Knowing there is little I could offer you, in a relationship, Gregory, I can’t but take it as a personal failing of mine.”

 

“Please,” Greg stammers. “Call me Greg.”

 

Mycroft smiles.

 

“Greg.”

 

Greg comes to his senses, running a hand through his hair and jumping to Mycroft’s consolation. Talk about a confession! (Now if only perps were this easy to talk.)

 

“Mycroft,” Greg says. “ _Believe me_ when I tell you, you have loads to offer. In a relationship. With anyone,” he adds, gesturing around the room briefly.

 

“We’d be lucky to have you.”

 

.

 

Phillip Anderson nearly chokes when he looks up at the person who’d just taken a seat beside him on the loveseat and lo and behold, there’s Mycroft Holmes himself.

 

He tries to say hi, but really only succeeds in coughing as hors d'oeuvres crumbs go down the wrong pipe.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man says, holding out a hand to shake. Philip takes it, and startles at how sensual he’s managing to make a simple _handshake_. There is nothing business-like about it at all. Philip is a bit hot under the collar.

 

“Philip Anderson,” he finally manages to say. “But you can call me Phil.”

 

Mycroft smiles.

 

“I’m glad you’re here, Phil,” Mycroft says. “I hope to see more of you this week.”

 

Philip is stunned still for several moments even after Mycroft leaves the loveseat to further mingle.

 

.

 

Jim makes sure none of the cameras have him within their sights, and then discretely hides a throw pillow - slashed up when it hadn’t been mere moments ago - inside a potted plant.

 

.

 

“Ah, Miss Hooper.”

 

Molly turns around, before wiping her mouth with some alarm. She’s standing by the bar, a bright red cherry-flavoured drink in hand, topped with whip cream that no doubt had gotten all over her lip.

 

“Mycroft!” she greets him.

 

“It seems my brother has roped you into his little...scheme as well. My condolences,” he says. “I must make it up to you.”

 

Molly’s smile is crooked and a bit self-conscious, but a smile she offers up freely.

 

“Actually, I’m here of my own volition - if you can believe that,” she says with a too-loud laugh. Then she parses her own words. “Do you find it um - “ she searched for a word that wasn’t _desperate_ for trying to find love on some reality show for god’s sake, a word that wasn’t _pathetic_ \- it must have seemed as such, trying to get over one brother by fawning over the other. Oh god, it hadn’t even occurred to her that Mycroft might -

 

She looks up at him, ready to say something, apologize maybe, offer to leave, but catches him with eyes averted, ears tinged pink slightly, looking almost bashfully pleased.

 

“Brave?” he says, and it takes her another second to realize he’s offering a word as substitute. Her only reply is some strangled sound as the words crash to a stop in her throat, becoming all jumbled together.

 

“I admire your dauntless view of love, Molly - may I call you that? The show has regulations against using surnames, a ridiculous rule, but one I must adhere by nonetheless.” She nods emphatically.

 

“Hurt as you may have been, you still believe in … the power of love, I suppose. Romantic as it might be, impractical even, when I look at you,” he trails off for a moment. “I see hope.”

 

He kisses her gently on a hand she offers when he holds his own out, and then leaves her by the bar, face as red as her drink.

 

.

 

By the time the clock strikes midnight, Veronica has such smashing footage she’s willing to bet a TV award already.

 

The sound of a dessert fork against glass rings out, and people pause and turn. Mycroft is standing center stage, champagne glass raised.

 

“Ah, thank you,” he says, having gained everyone’s attention. “I’d like to say a few words, mainly to thank everyone for being such lovely guests and gifting me with such a memorable welcome.”

 

“When I was first approached with news that I had been nominated for the show - well,” he laughs, and the contestants laugh along with him. “I’m really just a minor government official. So, I thought, what a boring television show subject that would make!”

 

“But, selfishly, perhaps,” he says, tone turning solemn. “I thought - what if it could happen?”

 

“That someone like me, could find love?” He inspects his glass, seemingly lost in thought. The room listens raptly, as if enamored with his words. Then the suspenseful moment is broken with an almost self-deprecating smile.

 

“And wouldn’t that be a miracle?”

 

More laughs, and a smattering of applause that builds to something spectacular.

 

Then, without warning, half the room is plunged into darkness - even the producers are shocked - and Mycroft’s voice rings out.

 

“I’ve gone ahead and picked 12 suitors, eliminating 18, doing away with the need for a tedious ceremony,” Mycroft says, already on his way up the stairs. He pauses halfway, a hand on the banister. “Those left in the light… I really do look forward to getting to know you on our journey here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be retiring to my rooms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this drama queen


	7. No interview with the Bachelor

A knock comes at Mycroft’s door and he knows it’s the film crew - Sherlock would have just picked the lock and barged in.

 

“I gave you the most dramatic elimination ceremony you’ve ever had in the history of the show, what more do you want from me?” he calls out from where he’s already flopped over on the bed, arm flung over his eyes. He’s rather glad Sherlock hasn’t barged in on him in this melodramatic pose.

 

“I need your  _ reaction _ ,” Veronica says through the door, exasperated. 

 

“My fleeing up the stairs wasn’t reaction enough?” Mycroft says. 

 

Veronica purses her lips, tries to muster up the friendly, patient persona she used to handle gun shy contestants. It was somehow so impossible, with this diva of a Bachelor this season - and why should it be? Veronica has handled divas before.

 

“I just want to catch up with you, Mycroft,” she says, sounding quite genuine. “You can think poorly of me if you like, if it makes you feel better about the show. But it  _ is _ part of my job to make sure everyone involved is handling things well, you know. I need to know you’re not on your way toward a nervous breakdown.”

 

Mycroft is quiet for a moment.

 

“Send the cameras away, and I’ll grant you a moment of face time.”

 

Veronica rolls her eyes, and waves the cameraman away, pointing to the corner of the hallway. He gets the picture, moving to set up from behind a statue.

 

“And by ‘away,’ I don’t just mean to have the cameras stand farther,” Mycroft continues.

 

Veronica reigns in her temper, inhaling long and slow, as she turns back to glare at Mycroft’s door.

 

“Alright,” she grits out. She draws her hand along her neck. The cameraman looks surprised, but shrugs and walks off.

 

A moment later, the door opens, and Mycroft pokes his head out.

 

“I’m mentally sound, and intend to finish out the remainder of the episodes as contracted. There. Satisfied?”

 

“Hardly!” Veronica says, eyebrows raised. “What was that nonsense with the lights? You could have broken something! And you effectively cut the episode short with that!”

 

Mycroft scowls. “I’m sure you’ll scrounge up more than enough material from the post-party interviews. It’s your  _ job. _ ”

 

He doesn’t slam the door, but he closes it with a  _ thunk _ filled with finality. 

 

.

 

GREG 

 

Production assistants sit Greg down onto a red velvet couch, and he starts the moment he makes contact. How often does one end up sitting on a red velvet couch in one’s life? Why does anyone even own one? They powder his nose and the cameras train onto his face. Veronica sits across from him in a cream armchair, and crosses her legs casually. 

 

“So, what did you think of the bachelor?” she asks.

 

“Um.”

 

Greg is a veritable deer in headlights.

 

“I understand you know his brother?” she continues, trying to give him somewhere to start.

 

“Yeah…” Greg says, trailing off. He’s starting to look and sound like an amnesiac. It’s no good, none of this footage will do. 

 

“So, do you like him?” Veronica nudges.

 

“What? Who?” Greg asks, suddenly nervous.

 

She sighs.

 

.

 

MOLLY

 

Molly smiles and takes a seat, brushing the end of her ponytail over her shoulder. She gives this cute little shrug of her shoulders, bringing them up in a tiny movement of uncontained joy.

 

“Oh, yes I think we had a - rather interesting talk,” she babbles. “He is  _ quite _ interesting.”

 

“And” - a wistful sigh - “I think we’re both in a similar place in our lives, you know? Burned once by love, but willing to try again.”

 

“You think you’ll find it?” Veronica asks.

 

“Oh, yes. I do think I’ll love again. I do hope I’ll find love again,” Molly answers.

 

“You think you’ll find it here?” Veronica asks.

 

“Maybe!” Molly says with a laugh. “And, well, he sort of is my type.”

 

“Posh? Refined?”

 

Molly smiles, then bites her lip. “Too clever for his own good.”

 

.

 

JOHN

 

John sits down on the couch so hard he almost bounces off, and has to steady himself.

 

“Oh. Sorry.”

 

Veronica smiles, tight lipped and already tired of these interviews.

 

“Yes, I came here to find the love of my loaf,” John says, completely unconvincing and monotoned. He squints. “Life.”

 

Veronica feels a migraine coming on. How much of the footage was even usable at this point? Why did all of these people sound like they’d been kidnapped and forced to participate at gunpoint?

 

“And I think I can find that in Mycroft,” he finishes, speech stilted. John squints some more. 

 

Was he  _ reading _ off cue cards?

 

“I am here to prove that sometimes all you need is a good … goldfish?”

 

Veronica whips her head around, and catches Sherlock ducking behind a palm tree with some posterboard. 

 

She looks back at John, who looks utterly confused, and a bit haunted.

 

.

 

TIFFANY

 

“I’m an art dealer,” says the poised, elegant woman tucked into the side of the couch. She makes it look like coveted piece of furniture, rather than something from the prop shop. Tiffany’s dark brown hair cascades over one bare shoulder as if she accidentally looked so picture-perfect, and not because her hair was pinned to one side by the power of two dozen pins. The emerald halter-top dress makes her light green eyes glow. 

 

“When I look at a piece, I don't just look at surface beauty. I look for the moment that  _ grips _ you, that speaks to your soul,” she says. “You just  _ know _ it when it happens.

 

“I was looking for that here” - she quirks a small smile, just self-deprecating enough for you to like her, as if she’s about to share an inside joke - “And I think I felt it.”

 

“Really?” Veronica asks, affecting excitement more for the purpose of getting the contestant to elaborate.

 

“Yes, we had a moment, Mycroft and I.” She smiles, remembering. “He took me out onto the terrace for a quiet moment, and I think - definitely - there was a connection.”

 

Veronica holds in a sigh of relief. It was too early to start celebrating. But yes, this -  _ this _ was what she needed, what her  _ viewers _ wanted. Millionaire matches to show the glam world of posh dates before they peeled away at the veneer midseason and let loose all the crazy drama and family secrets and personal skeletons in the closet. Rich, repressed people were the craziest ones, but they put on a good show, and a good face. 

 

Not like these little weirdos the bachelor’s brother had picked out. Veronica couldn’t believe that little twerp was getting an executive producer role for their tax breaks. He clearly knew nothing about reality TV.

 

.

 

MARK

 

“Mycroft is...nothing like I expected,” a blonde gentleman says with a laugh. Mark is an interior architect with his own considerable following on social media, and clearly he was gunning for his own show as well. Veronica knew that when she picked him, and was wary the bachelor would cut him early. Especially since Mycroft had been so resistant to her coaching.

 

“Oh? What did you expect?” She hides her nervousness.

 

“I’d heard rumors he was cold, really hard to get to know. But he’s not been like that at all - he’s been - so positively charming.”

 

Veronica smiles. “Well, maybe you’re special.”

 

“I feel like he really listens,” Mark continues, more contemplative. “I look for that in a partner.”

 

.

 

BILLY

 

“Um,” he says, mouth still full of what Veronica fears is cocktail shrimp. “I didn’t actually speak to Mr. Holmes. Sorry, I mean Mycroft. Gosh that’s weird. Anyway, I didn’t actually even see him all evening. Surprised I’m still here.”

 

Veronica glares in the general direction of where she thinks Sherlock might be hiding.

 

.

 

ARABELLA

 

There is something about the woman that makes her look fragile. There’s a peachy, rose-ish tint to her brown hair that gives her a halo-like glow around her face, giving her round, wide eyes and delicate bones an almost angelic appearance. Veronica thinks that this is the type of woman a man looks at and wants to protect. 

 

“Mycroft is…” Arabella pauses to think, a little smile on her face. “Incredibly intelligent. He’s definitely the type of person who knows how to hold himself. But that makes me wonder, did I meet the real Mycroft tonight?”

 

“You worry he won’t open up?” Veronica asks.

 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Arabella says, and Veronica wonders how a smile so small and sweet can double as patronizing. “I head a non-profit, which means I spend countless nights shaking hands and fundraising - I know his type, and I appreciate the tremendous poise; not everyone can do that night after night.”

 

“But, yes, I do fear he’ll be slow to open up.” She sighs, and leans back in her seat just a bit. “I want to find someone who can be real with me. A partner who can navigate my world would be amazing - but at the end of the day, I just want someone to understand me.”

 

.

 

JANINE

 

Janine pushes her dark hair over one shoulder. The bright blue of her dress makes her complexion glow, but she looks real in a way some of these other women don’t. She’s not the quirky girl next door, the radiant nymphette, nor the elegant sophisticate. She’s a person. 

 

“Mycroft is a funny fellow,” Janine says, catching Veronica by surprise.

 

“Really?” she asks. She needs to know more.

 

“Mm-hm, first you think he’s this - stuffy, old fashioned type, until he turns on the charm. But he’s a softie, I think. I get the sense he doesn’t quite know what he wants, though,” Janine says.

 

“Do you know what  _ you _ want?”

 

“Oh, I’m positive about what I want.”

 

.

 

JIM

 

Veronica squints at the little dark-haired man before her. Well, not  _ little _ necessarily, but little for TV. They always picked these tall, broad-shouldered men for these types of things. People of his stature ended up there for color, or comedic value. But here he was, sitting pretty in his slim cut, clearly designer suit. 

 

“Um. How,” Veronica flips through her notes, trying to locate his brief without success. “How was your first meeting with the bachelor?”

 

The man smiles and his gaze flicks downward, not like he’s nervous, but like he doesn’t understand how to present himself on television, and Veronica knows this must be another one of Sherlock’s picks - an ordinary person, with no stage training.

 

“Oh, it was lovely,” he says, startling her with his accent. 

 

“I’ve - I’ve never done something like this before,” he says with a laugh. “So I wasn’t sure whether it’d even be possible to have a conversation with him, with Mycroft, without it being incredibly awkward. It is a bit like speed-dating, this first night, isn’t it?”

 

“But oh. I can see why it works. And I can see why the man has thirty-odd people clamoring for his attention.”

 

“Mm-hm,” Veronica nods, still trying to keep up. “And you, what do you do?”

 

Jim just waves a hand. “I’m a banker, terribly boring. I told him as much, and we spoke instead about films, books - oh, is that a cliche? I hope he doesn’t find me boring.”

 

Veronica smiles. “You liked him quite a bit then?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

.

 

ELLIOT

 

Elliot leans back in the seat, one arm flung over the back, all easy charm as he smiles at a PA who stops to help him fix his mic.

 

“He’s gorgeous.”

 

“Your type?” Veronica asks. Elliot is a chef, but his frenetic restaurateur days are behind him, and the man that sits before her now is this tall, dark and handsome type with a distinct outdoors-y feel, which almost certainly comes from the fact that he’s taken to opening some bar-slash-restaurant near the countryside. It’s one of those experimental, experiential hot new spots where the food is entirely organic, grown on-site or locally sourced, enticing the affluent to take weekend or day trips out to the rural nowhere, then sit down for a nice, warm homemade and healthy meal. He’s the perfect picture of modern day wellness but just a few years before, he’d burned out on the restaurant scene and finally crashed when he overdosed on stimulants and got landed in rehab. 

 

In short, Elliot was rugged and wholesome and had a dramatic backstory, and Veronica so wanted him for Mycroft. Oh, how sparks would fly. The one-on-one dates would be so  _ steamy _ . 

 

“My type?” Elliot runs a hand down his face, thinking. He laughs. “Not sure I have one.” 

 

“I think I may be a bit of an equal opportunist when it comes to what I like, but god he’s got legs for days and eyes like ice, but when you catch him in a moment alone, god he says the filthiest things,” Elliot says good humoredly. 

 

He drops his hand to his lap.

 

“ _ Really _ looking forward to getting to know him better.”

 

.

 

HARRY

 

The equerry smiles nervously, and Veronica smiles nervously back.

 

“Um, well.  I suppose you want me to talk about the fact that Mycroft and I know each other.”

 

“Yeah, yeah sure.”

 

“That we have a relationship - a working relationship. So. I’ve known him for several years, he plays somewhat of a confidant in my role of work, and. Oh, sorry. I really actually can’t say much about it.”

 

Veronica’s smile is tight. “That’s fine.” She composes herself.

 

“So do you think you have a leg up against the other contestants, because you’ve known him longest?”

 

Harry looks surprised. “Oh! No, I - I, we never had that sort of relationship, I don’t think there’s ever been an inclination on either of our parts-”

 

“Are you interested in Mycroft?”

 

“Am I interested - I guess I have to say, I’m not uninterested.”

 

“Was it different, seeing him in this setting today? Very different from work, I imagine?”

 

“Yes, definitely. Oh, we trade quips and there’s the joke here and there, we aren’t unfriendly toward each other - but flirting, well that’s new.”

 

“Flirting! The chemistry is there, then?”

 

“I - should hope so.”

 

.

 

PHILLIP

 

“Mycroft...Mycroft’s a bit creepy, isn’t he?” Phillip Anderson says, scratching his chin with a finger. Veronica tries not to make a face.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“I mean he’s got this whole super agent secret spy thing going on, pops out of nowhere unlike that brother of his who simply has to make an entrance. He says things about you no one should know, and you kind of get the feeling he could make you disappear with the snap of his fingers, and no one’d be the wiser.”

 

“So you’re...scared of him?” Veronica asks.

 

“I um. I think I’m in love.”

 

Veronica stares. Philip stares back. She’s had enough. She turns around to signal to the cameras.

 

“CUT!” she yells. “And, that’s a wrap.”

 

.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who should our Bachelor choose? Text your vote to 666666!   
> Catch the next episode of The Bachelor Mondays 7/8c on ABC.


	8. Rendezvous

Sherlock sets down his headphones with a clatter and stands abruptly.

 

“Anthea,” he says. “The kingdom is in danger. Moriarty got in.”

 

“What?” She furrows her brows. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t bother replying, just pushes past her to run up the stairs to the wing with the contestants’ rooms so he confront his enemy face-to-face.

 

.

 

“Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock barges in on the man alone in his room, hanging up his suits in the wardrobe.

 

Jim just tosses him a glance over his shoulder.

 

“Oh, hello.”

 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks, eyes narrowed. “This is no time for games, this is my brother’s personal life here. But if you think I can’t run two shows at once, you’ll be sorry you underestimated me.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes. 

 

“Is it sooo hard to believe I’m here to find love? As a consulting criminal, I’ve got to keep a low profile. I don’t get out much, don’t meet many people who don’t just want me for my brains or my money,” Jim  says sadly.

 

“Cut the crap, Moriarty.”

 

Jim whirls around, arms open.

 

“Alright, you caught me. I’ll tell you what I’m really here for.”

 

“Your brother and I have an on-again, off-again relationship. It’s amazing. We have fantastic sex. But we tried to keep it that way despite the fact that our feelings for each other run deep. And now he’s on this  _ stuupid _ little show trying to find love  _ elsewhere _ , and I can’t very well let that happen. I’m going to win him back. And that’s why I’m here.”

 

Sherlock only hardens his glare.

 

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out anyway. I’ll be watching you, Moriarty,” he says, before he sweeps out of the room and slams the door as loudly as he humanly can.

 

Jim sighs, and rolls his eyes as he turns back to the wardrobe. He picks out one suit to move it to the other end, arranging the clothes by color, then stops.

 

He kicks the wardrobe, hard. 

 

Dammit, Sherlock had really put a damper on his mood. He couldn’t even muster up the motivation to sneak into Mycroft’s room now, because he was so conflicted and angry. If even  _ Sherlock _ couldn’t see that Mycroft and Jim belonged together - ( _ no, no, no, Sherlock was an expert at ignoring what was right in front of him, always looking for some clever puzzle of a backstory).  _

 

Jim breathed out slowly, counting the beats. He shut the wardrobe quietly, and decided to turn in. 

 


	9. First looks

It’s supposed to seem like a bright and early next morning, but in reality it’s already 11, fast pushing noon. All the contestants are dolled up, and, having gotten several shots of various people pitter pattering around the kitchen with their Instagram-ready breakfasts, they’re sat down in groups, meant to converse and compare notes on the bachelor and their experiences the night before - while waiting in anticipation for the producers to advise their next steps.

 

Greg, Philip, Janine, Tiffany, Molly, and Jim lounge semi-circle on sofas and armchairs in the living room.

 

Harry, Billy, John, Mark, Elliot, and Arabella have arranged chairs in some semblance of an oval on the spacious back porch. 

 

Meanwhile, Mycroft is getting his nails buffed and hair fluffed by the hair and makeup team.

 

He reclines in the makeup chair as people fawn over him, and George jumps into view with a bright grin.

 

“So! Are you excited? You could be going on a first date with your future wife - or husband - today.”

 

Mycroft just coolly glances at the camera following George several steps behind, and then back at the producer.

 

“Don’t do this to yourself, Mr. Camembert, it’s unbecoming.”

 

“Do what?” George asks, undeterred.

 

“Try to goad me into using your reality show lingo, I won’t do it.”

 

“Don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Hm,” is Mycroft’s only reply, before closing his eyes and leaning back to further ignore him.

 

.

 

ON THE PORCH

 

“So,” John says, hands on his knees. He’s sitting forward, posture rigid, in sharp contrast to the others who are reclining lazily in the sun. “What are your intentions toward Mycroft?” he asks the group at large.

 

Arabella peers over at John curiously, while Mark is trying to look nonchalant and uninterested. Billy is actually uninterested, while Harry looks distinctly uncomfortable, and Elliot is the only one who answers him outright, with a self-confident smirk.

 

“Probably the same as yours, isn’t that right?” Elliot asks. 

 

John’s brows furrow because, for a moment, he’s not quite sure what that means.

 

“What? No, I’m not - “ he stops, remembering when Sherlock had burst into his shared room early that morning (startling Greg out of bed at that), giving him explicit instructions not to be too suspicious. John had scoffed and told Sherlock he could handle it. He could handle  _ undercover.  _ He had military experience! He understood stealth.

 

So John squints, trying to backtrack.

 

“You intend to make an honest man out of him then?” he asks haltingly. 

 

Elliot laughs.

 

“I like you, John, you’re funny.”

 

Arabella toys with a strand of her hair. “What do  _ you _ think of Mycroft, John?” she asks. 

 

All eyes turn to John, and he feels the full, uncomfortable weight of their scrutiny. 

 

“Well I um - he’s smart,” John says. It’s evidently not enough for these other contestants, who only continue to stare at him.

 

“Is that your type then, smart?” Billy asks. 

 

John narrows his eyes at him. He’s a bit familiar, but he can’t quite place the young man. 

 

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” John asks.

 

“No,” Billy says, as he sticks out his hand to shake. “But I’m Shezzer’s friend, same as you.”

 

“What?” John is baffled.

 

“Do you find Mr. H- er, Mycroft attractive then?” Billy continues his interrogation.

 

“What?” Still baffled.

 

“You don’t find him attractive?” Arabella grabs onto this point, and all eyes turn to bore into John’s skull once again. He finds it a bit unfair.

 

“I- I’m still deciding,” John decides defensively. “Do  _ you _ find him attractive?”

 

“Yes, of course, why else would I be here?” she asks.

 

Elliot smirks. “Not sure what  _ his _ type is though, are we?” he asks, looking around at the group of misfits gathered on the porch. He eyes Mark, who hasn’t said two words this entire time, and then Harry, who keeps fidgeting, now unnecessarily straightening his tie.

 

“At least there aren’t five Laurens this season,” Billy says. “Or five Billys. How embarrassing. Heard there were two Jim’s though.”

 

John shoots Billy a look.

  
  


.

  
  


THE LIVING ROOM

 

Indoors, Tiffany breaks the ice, turning to Molly as if sensing something about the girl isn't up to scratch.

 

“You're here because you know Mycroft's brother?” Tiffany says. It's unclear whether this is a question or statement. 

 

Molly, caught off guard, stammers. 

 

“I - well I suppose I do,” Molly says. “Though that’s not exactly why I’m here.”

 

As she’s saying this, her eyes land on Jim, and her mouth drops. Jim, sensing his eyes on her, slowly shakes his head, enough that she catches it, but subtle enough for it to not look like they’re communicating. Her eyes go wide, mentally trying transmit the idea that they  _ needed to talk about this, straight away!  _ And that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. A slight head tilt signals his acquiescence.

 

“Really,” Tiffany says, dry. Her eyes follow Molly’s with slight annoyance at being ignored, though she doesn’t see anything special about Jim.

 

“Actually, I know his brother as well,” Phillip chimes in. 

 

Greg clears his throat at that, trying not to make eye contact. God, he feels like a guilty perp.

 

“Um. So do I,” Greg adds.

 

It’s Tiffany’s turn to stare, mouth agape.

 

“Is this some kind of joke? You all know his brother,” she says. 

 

“I don’t,” Janine says easily. She turns to Jim. “What about you?”

 

“Oh, no I haven’t met him,” Jim says. “I heard he’s a producer on the show?”

 

At her disbelieving look, Jim throws Molly a nervous glance.

 

.

 

IN THE PANTRY

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Jim says, hands up in surrender, tone placating. “So I ghosted you.”

 

“I thought something had happened!” Molly whisper-shouts. “After I broke up with you, you - you just disappeared! Your phone disconnected, you quit working at the hospital! What was I supposed to think??”

 

“That I - I had gone on a soul searching trip?” Jim asks, voice high and unconvincing. Molly gives him an incredulous stare and for a moment he thinks she’s going to slap him, but then she sighs, and any animosity she’s holding dissipates. 

 

Instead - she reaches out for a hug.

 

Jim lets her, awkwardly, giving her a weird look over her shoulder.

 

“I’m glad you found yourself, Jim,” Molly says with a sigh. “Your sexuality is nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“Um. Sure.”

 

“But I’m serious about Mycroft, and I’m not going to go easy on you or anything, so don’t expect that from me,” Molly says, point a finger in his face. 

 

Molly stalks out of the pantry, leaving the door swinging behind her. Jim’s not sure how to feel, now that his ex is competing with him for his - well, his other ex.

 

.

 

CONFESSIONAL

 

“Um, I suppose you could say people tend to underestimate me,” Molly says, sorting out her words. “Or at least, overlook me.” 

 

She looks straight into the camera.

 

“But that’s their problem. It’s time for me to think about me, and once I set my mind to something, I achieve my goals,” she says.

 

.

 

ON THE PORCH

 

A knock comes at the glass door that opens out to the porch, and Billy looks up first. He hops over Mark’s legs on his way to accept an envelope, then spins around back to the group to read the message aloud.

 

“First dates are often accompanied by butterflies - shall we discover whether the fluttering wings will take flight? Arabella - will you accept the first one-on-one date?” Billy reads aloud. He reads it again to himself, just to make sure. “He doesn’t write these himself, does he?”

 

.

 

IN THE LIVING ROOM

 

Tiffany gives Molly a weird looking, as she’s just entered from the kitchen not long after Jim. The insinuation is pretty clear.

 

“Oh! We’ve got a card,” Jim says, snatching up the thick paper envelope left on the arm of the sofa, trying to distract from their odd secret meeting. 

 

“Love in stories often ends in death and despair - lucky that we don’t live in an opera,” Jim reads, and wrinkles his nose. “Molly, will you accept this one-on-one date?”

 

.

 

CONFESSIONAL

 

Mark runs his hand through his hair and sits back, unaffected.

 

"It's not that I don't get along with others easily, I'd actually say I'm quite social. But the group we have here? Well, I'm not really sure they're worth my time. They're certainly not worth Mycroft's. I'm surprised they rounded up this - this odd gang of misfits."

 


	10. I am not doing that

A black limo pulls up and whisks away Mycroft and Arabella to a butterfly conservatory with a massive flower garden where the colorful insects fly free.    
  
Jim spies jealously on the proceedings via the feeds he's tapped of the producer's room, and a memory of Switzerland rises unbidden.   
  
He'd rented out an estate with a labyrinth-like garden one April and after various... activities, he and Mycroft had taken to the grounds for a stroll. It was as if the two of them were the only human souls left on earth, surrounded by green ivy and hedges and endless pale blue sky, not another building or vehicle in sight, and Mycroft had let Jim take his arm.    
  
It seemed somehow, to Jim at least, even more intimate than the night before, when Mycroft laid before him and Jim mapped the constellations of the freckles covering his back with his lips, committing each one to memory.   
  
He stands abruptly, feeling slightly nauseated, and pulls out his phone.   
  
"Get me a giant wheel of cheese," he snaps.   
  
.   
  
THE GARDEN   
  
"Welcome," a slightly older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair greets the reality show couple in thr foyer of the garden's welcome building, "to the Darlington-Eastaughffe Foundation Butterfly Conservatory."   
  
Arabella takes Mycroft's arm and squeezes in close, smiling up at him to take in his reaction. He's been coolly polite this whole time, but she can feel his distance - perfectly admirable in a gentleman, though not so good for a televised dating show - and takes it as a personal challenge to heat things up.   
  
Mycroft only turns his politely reserved smile down toward her face, before once again looking at the conservatory guide.   
  
"We've over fifty species at the conservatory," the guide explains with no small amount of excitement, pushing up his square, black glasses, "generously made possible by the gifts of our eminent donors. Do you - you two, the lovely couple, enjoy butterflies?"   
  
Arabella turns her smile, the one that seems to make her glow from within, to the guide.   
  
"I suppose we're about to find out."   
  
.

 

“The Apatura iris, or purple emperor, is a Eurasian butterfly that hangs on trees and feeds not on flowers, but the honeydew secreted by aphids and the sap of pak trees, as well as various animal excrements.” 

 

Mr. Hart, the butterfly guide, drones on as Mycroft and Arabella stroll through the conservatory garden, framed by beautiful blooms and bathed in soft, filtered light. He looks stately and she looks demure; they’re both radiant.

 

Veronica is bored to tears.

 

“We breed various species of butterflies here, in a sanctuary without predators, and then they are transported back to their natural habitats to repopulate depleted areas,” Mr. Hart explains. 

 

Arabella leans closer, but it does nothing to melt Mycroft’s stone-cold veneer. He doesn’t tense either, so it’s nothing in particular for her to remark on. In fact, he seems genuinely interested in the butterflies. 

 

Arabella follows his line of sight, and reaches out for a jewel-toned insect that doesn’t come. 

  
"Let me guess, you aren't the type that gets butterflies when you see someone you like, are you?" Arabella asks as they walk. "Or are you a closet romantic?"   
  
Mycroft is a tinge relieved his cold persona is holding up under the trying demands of being a reality star    
  
"You're correct, I have to say I'm more the practical sort. I'm awfully old-fashioned in some ways and I suppose I've long viewed marriage as not just a love match, but a business partnership of sorts entered into by equal parties who- “

 

Veronica rips out her earpiece and screams into a pillow.

 

.

 

LUNCH

 

Not 20 minutes after Mycroft has been ushered back into the gaudy mansion from the limo that had taken him and Arabella back from the conservatory, Veronica is at the door.

 

“Can I not have at least some semblance of autonomy?” Mycroft asks, tone clipped.

 

“No,” she says through the door. “You signed those rights away, and if you keep insisting on being difficult with the door I’ll just have the lock removed.”

 

Mycroft glares at the door knowing full well she can’t see it, and sets down the hot towel he had been pressing to his eyes.

 

He could have this entire production demolished within an hour, and he knows it. Sentiment says it would make a selection of people quite unhappy with him, but what did he care what the Queen thinks of him? 

 

His stomach growls.

 

Mycroft opens the door.

 

“I haven’t eaten all day.” He says it like a threat. 

 

Veronica’s only response is a broad smile.

 

“Just the way I like it,” she says, looping her arm through his and dragging him out the room. Mycroft physically recoils, and she lets him. “You need to go to hair and makeup now, we’re shooting lunch in 10.”

 

“We’re  _ shooting _ our lunch?”

 

“Yes. With rifles,” Veronica says. 

 

.

 

The lunch shoot takes place in a massive tent outdoors - white canvas walls surrounding a space that’s been transformed into a massive kitchen space with 12 separate stations. 

 

Mycroft steps in, and balks.

 

Each contestant stands at their stations, armed with kitchen implements and no ingredients - the foodstuffs are all set on the long dining table - all the way on the other side of the tent.

 

“No,” Mycroft says, hardlined and sotto voce.

 

“Too late,” Veronica murmurs back. “We’re rolling.”

 

“At least be  _ civilized _ about it,” he hisses.

 

Veronica shrugs.

 

From the center back of the stations, Elliot claps his hands three times and loud.

 

“Alright, first group date challenge,” he booms. He picks up a card left on his station, and reads it loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

“They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and we’ll put that theory to the test here with a test of your skills - in the kitchen. Can you take the heat?” Elliot reads. “Each contestant will have until the clock counts down to cook up a dish you think can best win our bachelor’s heart.”

 

On cue, a big digital clock reading 55 minutes lights up in red.

 

“Mycroft will be the sole judge of this challenge - and the winner will not only stay through the week, but get a one-on-one date next week as well.”

 

“Ready? Three, two, - “

 

An airhorn rings out, and the contestants nearly stumble over each other in their mad dash to the ingredients table just as Mycroft had feared. 

 

Tiffany is grabbing as many fresh produce items as she can hold in her arms, Mark looks completely lost, and Arabella is surprisingly quick, snatching up the salt and sugar before anyone’s even thought to do so. 

 

Jim wheels a giant circle of cheese out on top of a portable furnace, and plunks it - firewood and all - down by his station. Harry neatly ties an apron over his clothes. John asks too loudly what the different between baking powder and baking soda is. 

 

Mycroft buries his face in his hands, he can’t bear to watch. 

 

.

 

LUNCH IS SERVED

 

Fifty-five minutes later, a quarter of the contestants are somehow covered in the ingredients they were supposed to cook, at least half of them have relatively presentable meals, and all of them stand by their Lovecraftian creatures (okay, Arabella’s looks quite decent, to be fair), looking as if they’d been through a war zone.  

 

Mycroft takes one look at the group, and promptly does an about face.

 

.

 

THE PRODUCER’S ROOM

 

“I pick the dates from now on,” Mycroft says, flinging open the dark curtains to dramatize his entrance.

 

“You can advise on the one-on-one dates,” Camembert counters immediately, falling into the pace of negotiations while everyone else around him scrambles to cover up the boards, the  _ comments they’ve written _ , the screens.

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I need veto power.”

 

Camembert shrugs. “Sorry kiddo, some of these trips have been signed with sponsors already. Somebody needs to foot the bill.”

 

Mycroft scowls. “I won’t change entire locations, but I  _ will _ have a say over the narrative arc and who, what, where.”

 

They stare-off. It’s intense.

 

Finally, Camembert breaks out into a grin, and the production staff nearly collapses with relief. He holds out his hand to shake, and Mycroft takes it gingerly.

 

“You’re a tough cookie,” he says with a grin. “These contestants are gonna have a hellof a time cracking you open.”

 

“Mr. Camembert-”

 

“Call me Mr. Cheese, everyone does.”

 

“Fine. Please prepare a list of items for us to go over.”

 

“Alright, alright,” he says, seeing Veronica’s panicked expression. “But first we’ve got to finish shooting lunch.”

 

Mycroft nods and turns to leave.

 

“There’s an episode with a hot tub-”

 

“I am not doing that.”

 

.

 

LUNCH

 

At this point, Mycroft is supposed to give one of the contestants an early indicator of their being able to stay through to the next week (aka, giving them a rose). Instead, Mycroft just turns and stares directly into the nearest camera with a very flat look. There will be no roses, Veronica. Not now, not ever. Not on the Mycroft Holmes show.

 

He walks over to Harry and moves to shake his hand. The man has made scones, bless his heart.

 

“Reminds me of, um, tea we had,” he says.

 

Mycroft nods.

 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to send you home.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes, it is a bit… much, knowing you from work, and having you here now. You understand, of course.”

 

“Yes, yes, of course.”

 

Veronica’s cameraman Tim gives her a look. He’s American. They’re being awfully British. 

 

Mycroft turns to leave, but not before halting to a stop in front of Jim’s station. The man has made raclette, bringing to mind their Swiss vacation, and the emotions that come with it. He quickens his pace as he leaves the tent.

 

.

 

EVENINGS AND GOWNS

 

Molly reaches for the zipper to her rosey pink dress once, twice, and then jumps. Mycroft stands and walks over to where she is by the triptych of mirrors and helps her get that last little bit.

 

She tilts her head back to look up at him.

 

“This is awfully ‘Pretty Woman,’” she says.

 

He gives her a wry smile, and then looks straight into the filming cameras, through one of the mirrors. The cameraman flinches. 

 

They’re in an upscale boutique, which has been booked all afternoon until closing for the show’s exclusive usage. 

 

“This isn’t your color,” Mycroft says. “It’ll only wash you out.”

 

Molly bites her lip, narrows her eyes at the reflection. He’s right. She has a lipstick this color. 

 

She darts off to grab a cherry red number; she’s always liked the color. His eyebrows rise ever so slightly, in both surprise and approval, and she makes her way back into the changing room to try it on.

 

Moments later she pulls the curtain back.

 

“Well?”

 

Mycroft tilts his head. 

 

“That’s really...something.”

 

“Something good, or something bad?”

 

“My dear, if things don’t work out between us, I’m sure after this episode airs, you’ll have a thousand suitors vying for your hand.”

 

.

 

THE OPERA

 

“The opera,” Molly gasps, sitting up in her seat. They’re in the limousine, Tim the Cameraman crouched uncomfortably to shoot. 

 

“Cliche, isn’t it?” Mycroft says. He’s smiling though.

 

“Very!” Molly agrees; she laughs too. “I’m very happy to go, I just won’t have any idea what they’re saying.”

 

“She loves him, he loves another, he realizes he’s wrong when she’s dead,” Mycroft says.

 

“What’s it called?” Molly asks.

 

“Any of them,” he says. 

 

“Ah.”

 

.

 

Somewhere in near the end of Act II, Molly falls asleep. Tim creeps closer (they were given special permission to film in one of the private boxes), and Mycroft makes a really terrifying face at him. Tim retreats.

 

Mycroft has to wonder whether he is doing all this - playing nice, listening - if he really does see something in her, or if he is doing this to somehow repay her for all the help she’s given Sherlock.

 

It’s a nice night out regardless, until he walks her up the steps of the mansion, and she turns around before they reach the door.

 

“Mycroft, be honest,” she says. “Do you think - this - anything between us - there’s a possibility? Or are you just putting up with me because of Sh- because of your brother?”

 

Mycroft blinks down at her. He can’t say he wasn’t warned not to underestimate her. Even still…

 

“I’m not sure,” he says in a sudden fit of honesty. “I think I would like it to be the former, but I’m not familiar enough with the feeling to say. I do hate to say this, but, would you allow me more time?”

 

Molly’s smile is like a sunrise. 

 

She stands on the very tip of her toes to give him a peck on the cheek.

 

“Yes, of course,” she says, before turning to go inside.

  
  



	11. Eye Contact

Billy looks up blearily at who he assumes is an intern, and who is holding out a piece of paper at Billy’s nose.

 

“He wants to see you in his office,” the supposed intern says in a shaky voice.

 

Billy yawns, pushing down his duvet, and squints at the note.

 

THE OFFICE

 

Mycroft Holmes folds his hands before him, and looks out at Billy from over his desk.

 

“I could have _sworn_ this was a rec room just yesterday,” Billy says, walking over to examine the bar. “There was a billiards table here yesterday. I’m sure of it. I played Shezza.”

 

Billy points to a portrait of the Queen.

 

“This was a darts board.”

 

“Please, take a seat,” Mycroft says.

 

He does.

 

“Now, this cannot possibly come as a surprise, but we’re going to have to let you go,” Mycroft says gently.

 

Billy blinks.

 

“Are you, um. Firing me from the show?”

 

“Yes. You understand,” Mycroft says without missing a beat. “Truth be told, the only reason you’re still here is because I had forgotten about you. I can’t be dating my brother’s intern, in any case.”

 

“I’m not actually an intern.”

 

“Someone will see you out. You may, of course, say your goodbyes to Sherlock first.”

 

BEHIND THE SCRIPT

 

“Alright,” Mr. Cheese says, crossing one foot over the other on top of his desk. “Let’s go over these key points in the narrative.”

 

Mycroft nods.

 

“We want three big kiss moments before the end of the season.”

 

Mycroft frowns. “Fine.”

 

“Final two has to be a tough tie.”

 

He rolls his eyes. Guess he’ll have to make use of those acting skills he acquired in primary school.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Also, the next group date has already been planned and paid for, so we couldn’t change it even if we wanted to. But you _can_ invite fewer contestants than originally planned, if you’d like.”

 

Mycroft narrows his eyes.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Okay - you're gonna love this. So the next date is at Jurassic World.”

 

I’M SORRY, JURASSIC WHAT NOW?

 

Mycroft slaps his hand over his face.

 

He and Janine and Tiffany and Greg are dressed in some cargo-camo explorer getups, standing in the middle of a man made rainforest of some sorts, holding what basically amounted to laser rifles. They sounded and felt like they were shooting, but it was all sensors.

 

Tiffany shrieks, and they all turn toward her with some alarm.

 

She slaps her hand, in tears.

 

“I think a bug _bit_ me.”

 

Greg tries to keep a straight face. Janine rolls her eyes. Mycroft makes eye contact with the camera.

 

They walk as quietly as possible, the goal being to get from one end of the theme park to the other. Their vehicles had broken down about ten minutes into the thing and though the smart thing to do might have been to stay put, it was clear the script called for a heart-pounding scenario wherein Mycroft might need to rescue or be rescued, thus bonding with the other poor, traumatized soul.

 

But. So far, so good.

 

UNTIL IT’S NOT

 

A low growl rumbles through the clearing.

 

Greg signals for silence. Janine looks alert. Tiffany starts whining.

 

Mycroft glares at the camera.

 

Leaves rustle - and then -

 

“RUN!!” Greg shouts, ushering the others ahead, while firing shots in the direction of the beast that’d leapt from the foliage.

 

Mycroft is impressed. These animatronics really are quite realistic.

 

He’d have to look into who the investors were. Pity they thought the show would bring good publicity for the opening of their immersive theme park. He was shutting the whole thing down when he finally got out of this.

 

Pity too, that he was thinking this while he was meant to be running, and as such nearly missed the fact that the tree root before him was in fact not a tree root and rigged to lift and trip poor parkgoers like himself. He recognized it before it happened, of course, but not so early that he prevented himself from tripping entirely.

 

He hops, in what he supposed was an unseemly way, though forgivable under the circumstances, and despite knowing the creature chasing them was not organic and had no real need or want to eat human flesh, he wondered if it was high time for his life to flash before his eyes.

 

_BANG!!_

 

His head snaps around, needing to see whether the shot landed. It _sounded_ like it had landed, what with the loud, primordial roar that followed. One slow footstep follows another as the furious creature strides toward them -

 

And then it stops-

 

And falls.

 

The four of them hold their breaths, and their bodies.

 

Then Greg clears his throat. They all turn to him; Mycroft sees he is holding his gun, but not in any position that indicates he was the one who made the shot.

 

He turns to Janine.

 

She, on the other hand, carries it easily, before dropping it to her side.

 

They stare.

 

She regards the newfound attention with ease.

 

“Da took me hunting as a girl,” she explains.

 

They nod solemnly.

 

Mycroft glares at the camera.

 

OUT THE OTHER END

 

The rest of the journey is no less dramatic, though they are better prepared this time. They walk back to back, Greg and Janine primed to shoot, and Mycroft telling the group where to go. Tiffany mostly stares ahead, torn between anger and upset. This is not what she signed up for.

 

She’s fairly easy to work with, despite that. She follows well enough, puts up no further complaints. But that quietness is just a powder keg waiting to blow, Mycroft knows, and he’s just wondering what’s going to set it off.

 

Turns out it’s a simple courtesy gesture that does it.

 

They’re “rescued” by the crew and then wrapped in blankets and served warm drinks and meant to be ushered into big SUVs to take them back to the mansion. Mycroft gets into the car with Mr. Cheese, And Janine calls shotgun (they let her have it) in the contestant car. Greg takes one door, and the driver comes around to open the other door for Tiffany.

 

And she _loses it._

 

“Oh, oh NOW you help?” she says, laughter bubbling at the back of her throat. She steps back from the door, from the driver, eyes wild. He’s done enough security work to recognize the beginnings of a scene when he sees one. She goes off about being left to fend for herself in the jungle and the ridiculousness of this show and her impending lawsuit and he tries, gently, to get her to calm down.

 

“Calm down? _Calm? Down?_ ”

 

There it is.

 

Tiffany starts laughing, the laughter turning hysterical, until it turns into something of a battle cry, and then before anyone’s aware, she’s grabbed one of the laser rifles and is trying to club the driver over the head with it, all while yelling all sorts of profanities.

 

Mycroft can’t even find a camera to look into, they’re all so busy with her.

 

BACK IN THE OFFICE

 

Anthea steps into the former rec room, and frowns at the new decor.

 

“You redecorated already!” she says, pointing at the stormy landscapes Mycroft had put up on the wall opposite the window.

 

“I did,” Mycroft says, sitting back in his chair.

 

“What was wrong with the old paintings?”

 

“Bit too Rococo for me.”

 

Anthea frowns at the Sturm und Drang feel of the room, then narrows her eyes at her boss. This was _not_ the kind of Romantic they were going for, and he knew it.

 

“Terrible pun,” she says. He just smiles.

 

Anthea hands him his passport.

 

“You’re going to Spain,” she says.


	12. Please stop yelling at me

Jim sits in a newly vacated room in the fortress-slash-museum of Alcazár, fiddling with the radio as he watches his pilfered feeds. The current date is _such_ a snoozefest.

 

He’s secretly pleased.

 

He also feels just a teensy bit obligated to bring the drama. Jim scratches his chin, and wonders if he should barge in and stir up a scene. Ooh, maybe he can get Molly to help him orchestrate something.

 

No, no, it’s too early in the season. And he can’t afford to get cut so early on.

 

It’s cool and dry where he is, sitting in his little makeshift control room, remote in hand. But it is hot and sunny outdoors with enough tourists that they had to block off sections of the street in order to shoot.

 

Mycroft looks absolutely miserable, walking in time with _Mark_ , as they tour the famous, soaring High Gothic cathedral of Toledo. Not that anyone but Jim would know, because outwardly Mycroft looks to be enjoying a nice little vacation. But Jim knows he’s miserable on the inside, because Mark is a total bore. He has to be.

 

“Wow,” Mark says, for what must be the fifth time since the two of them set foot in Toledo. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes.

 

He nearly drifts off as he watches the two of them meander through the church and then out into the streets again, and he _must_ have fallen asleep, because when he looks again, Mycroft’s demeanor has completely changed.

 

The lighting is absolutely perfect when Mycroft turns to Mark and, eyes glittering with interest, leans in slowly. Mark catches on quickly, his hand moving up to cup Mycroft’s face - but not too much so as to obscure the cameras’ line of sight - and they kiss.

 

Jim drops the remote, eyes wide.

 

Thank goodness there is no one in the vicinity to see Jim Moriarty caught off guard. And what the _hell_ had Mark managed to accomplish to make Mycroft Holmes want to kiss him?

 

His fingers are nearly trembling as he fumbles to hit rewind. Then he curses because the kiss scene is perfectly framed and lit, but there is _no audio_.

 

Jim _really_ doesn’t want to watch it again. But he finds himself hitting rewind.

 

YOU’RE NEVER REALLY FREE ON SET

 

John wanders down one of the uneven streets not too far behind from the rest of the contestants, who have been given some quote-unquote _free time_ to visit the city since Mycroft is on a one-on-one date with Mike or Matt or someone John can’t quite remember.

 

He says _quote-unquote_ because the cameras haven’t exactly stopped rolling. It’s just that this is what, as he heard from his new friend Jeff, they call B-roll. They might end up using 30 seconds total from these three hours, and therefore he is encouraged to act uninhibited. Whatever that means.

 

He’s not interested in posing for the cameras for three hours, so he falls behind a bit and takes shade in a sort of nook in the winding street.

 

And there is where he sees Mycroft, sitting neatly on a bench alone, radiating his general manner of authority - which is probably what helps keep the bench free from others despite the street being crowded and stuffy.

 

The man turns, just slightly, and he spots John. John raises a hand in greeting, and at the minute incline of Mycroft’s head, he walks over to take a seat beside him.

 

It’s not until he sits that he realizes Mycroft has got the side of the bench perfectly positioned for shade, thanks to a high point of an adjacent building. whereas John is practically staring the sun in the face.

 

“Never been to Spain before,” John says, conversationally. He looks around. “How did you manage to get away from all the cameras?”

 

“I have my ways,” Mycroft says in that mysterious way of his. He looks fresh and clean despite the oven-like summer of the city, and John drinks the sight in.

 

“So, uhm.” John clears his throat, suddenly a bit parched. “How are you holding up? I guess, for most people, coming to Spain and not having to deal with a national crisis is a vacation. For you, though, this - being surrounded with strangers and cameras,”

 

He turns a bit, to squint at Mycroft through the sun.

 

“It’s a bit like hell, isn’t it? For you, anyway.”

 

Mycroft gives him a sardonic smile.

 

“I meant that in a nice way,” John amends.

 

“Of course you did.”

 

John fidgets, a bit, in his seat, and then stands.

 

“I’ll just,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

 

He gets up and turns to leave, but only gets two steps away before he hears Mycroft call his name. He gives him a questioning look.

 

“Stay a while,” Mycroft says.

 

John hesitates.

 

“You look like you could do with a reprieve from the cameras as well.”

 

When Jim turns the corner into the little nook he knows Mycroft had taken refuge in, he sees the two of them laughing, and turns away.

 

TAKE IT OFF

 

Mycroft and Janine shield their eyes from the sun.

 

“I think they want us to strip,” Mycroft says, hand on hip.

 

“Obvi,” Janine says, donning a similar pose.

 

They’re both wearing massive coverups that cover, well, everything.

 

Janine peers at Mycroft from over her shades. “Do you want me to help you put on sunscreen?”

 

“Oh, that would be lovely.”

 

UNDER THE UMBRELLA

 

Janine smears white paste over Mycroft’s nose, and he nods in thanks. The two of them are sitting on a massive towel underneath an even more massive umbrella, with a stack of romance novels.

 

“How is Duchess Winfield?” Janine asks.

 

“Drowned, along with many of the other passengers aboard the Titanic. Or rather, that might have made it more interesting,” Mycroft says, before picking up another book.

 

“Hey!” Jeff, the cameraman, yells from a distance. He has the drones ready, and a little speed boat, and the camera setups been waterproofed and everything. “Can you guys do something else?”

 

Janine leans out from under the umbrella and looks at the sun.

 

“Honestly, I wouldn’t mind a tan,” she says.

 

Mycroft gives her an assessing look.

 

“You wouldn’t mind the publicity either, would you?”

 

She smiles, and he snaps his book shut.

 

“Far be it from me to deny you the opportunity,” he says. “God knows you’ve humored me enough.”

 

Jeff nearly cries tears of happiness, cameras rolling, as Janine shows off her bikini, before turning over on her stomach and untying the top, so that Mycroft can slather sunscreen over practically every inch of her.

 

“I have a hunch,” Janine says, arms folded under her chin, “I think the point of this beach-date might be to get us out make out.”

 

“Ah, yes, makes for good TV, doesn’t it?” Mycroft muses. “But what about plot development?”

 

Janine shifts slightly, so that she can look Mycroft directly in the eye.

 

“Without ratings, Mycroft, nothing matters,” she says seriously.

 

A private bartender brings them drinks.

 

IS THIS DINNER OR AN INTERROGATION?

 

“So, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft unfolds his napkin. “How are you?”

 

In the glow of the candlelight, Greg stares, not unlike a deer caught in the headlights. Or a goldfish.

 

“I. Thanks,” Greg says.

 

Mycroft looks confused.

 

“I mean!” Greg continues, panicked. “Well. Fine! I’m doing great. Thank you for asking.”

 

Mycroft opens his mouth to ask something else, then, realizing he can’t think of an easier question than what he led with, opts to say nothing at all. He takes a sip of wine.

 

Greg, catching on, does the same.

 

By the time the waiter returns, the bottle of wine is half gone.

 

ARE WE MOVING TOO FAST?

 

It turns out that once you get a couple of drinks in Greg, he’s a lot more open to sharing.

 

“Wine,” Greg says, looking at his half-consumed cup before taking another drink. “Never really understood it much, but my ex- my ex-wife, she loved learning about it. Wanted to take a trip to Burgundy, or Bordeaux. It’s all the same to me, shows how much I know.”

 

Mycroft just smiles politely, switching his glass out for mineral water instead.

 

Greg buries his face in his hands.

 

“Oh God. I’m so sorry,” Greg says. “I’m usually much better with dates when the idea is just to have a nice time, not so much with the threat of lifetime commitment looming overhead.”

 

Mycroft looks genuinely amused.

 

“A threat, is it?”

 

Greg blinks, registering his words.

 

“Oh God. Foot in mouth,” he groans. “All I’ve done is talk about my ex, or not talk at all. I don’t know how to do this anymore, I really don’t.”

 

“I did wonder why a two month-divorced man your age would jump onto a dating show…” Mycroft says considering.

 

Greg peers at him through his fingers, guilty. He’s obviously figured it out.

 

“Has my brother asked you to keep an eye on me as well?” Mycroft asks wryly. “He’s already asked his flatmate. I wonder if this is his idea of asking the family mess-up to move back in so they can all keep an eye on him.”

 

“You! A mess? You’re the very opposite of that,” Greg says. He laughs, and drinks his water, a bit less nervous now. “No, not that, at least I don’t think.”

 

He considers it.

 

“Or, not in so many words.”

 

Greg squints, and Mycroft watches the expressions play out across his face as realization dawns.

 

“Sherlock _did_ ask me onto the show, but he couldn’t possibly, no.”

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

 

Greg blushes.

 

“Suffice to say, you weren’t attracted onto this farce of a program because of me. I understand, Inspector; please don’t feel you need to accomodate my search for a match on international television. I will not be offended.”

 

“Oh, God, no, that’s not what I meant. You’re a catch! Of course you’re a catch, you’re Mycroft Holmes! Why wouldn’t someone want to date Mycroft Holmes!”

 

“Please stop yelling at me, you’re making the camera crew nervous.”

 

“That’s not what I- Oh my God.”

 

DEBRIEF

 

“That was a _disaster,”_ Sherlock snaps, turning quickly so that his big dramatic coat whips along with him.

 

Greg holds his head in his hand, too tired to do this.

 

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asks. They’re sitting what is basically a supply closet. Which Sherlock has somehow converted into a menacing approximation of his 221B sitting room, with a surprisingly accurate doodle of a skull on 8.5x11” paper pinned up for decorative purposes, and stacks of books that have come from who knows where.

 

Sherlock glowers at him, and then rewinds the tape. He hits play angrily, and Greg on screen can be heard, once again, yelling “Why wouldn’t someone want to date Mycroft Holmes!”

 

 _“Enough_ already!” Greg sighs.

 

“No, Greg,” Sherlock says, and his grave and serious tone is enough to make Greg snap to attention, even if Sherlock _hadn’t_ gone and used his real name correctly, for once.

 

“My brother Mycroft is a ginormous doofus,” he continues in his serious voice, ruining the effect almost immediately. “Which is why he needs all the help he can get in his personal life.”

 

Greg regards Sherlock skeptically, because it’s an awful lot like the pot calling the kettle black here.

 

“He is fast approaching middle age and starting to feel the effects of loneliness,” he continues gently, like a doctor explaining a difficult diagnosis. “He needs companionship, in his personal life, and you are one of the few people Anthea and I have handpicked to be here, who are qualified to fit the position.”

 

“Why on _earth_ would I be qualified?” Greg practically shouts. He’d just been divorced! He was shit at relationships! He hadn’t _dated_ in over a decade!

 

Sherlock shifts in his seat, still pinning Greg with that incisive gaze.

 

“You’ve always handled me just fine,” he says, frank as always. “I would even bet you’re just a tiiiny bit desensitized to such Holmesian brashness now, hm? And, well, Mycroft might seem diplomatic _now_ , but I assure you he can be a right twit.”

 

“Yeah, you’re not really selling me on this.”

 

“He is rich, too.”

 

“Sherlock, I’m not going to date your brother for his money!”

 

“Marry,” Sherlock corrects. “I need you to marry him.”

 

“Marry him!” Greg starts to laugh.

 

“Yes. Out of all these people here, I think you would be a perfectly acceptable brother in law,” Sherlock says, and Greg stops laughing abruptly. “If absolutely necessary, I think I could accept John as a runner-up. But he’s really here as security, not an understudy. Oh stop gaping like a goldfish, Gavin, we have work to do. You don’t think we picked out all these other idiots to provide easy competition just so you could get sent home mid-season, did you?”

 

“I’m sorry, brother-in-law?” Greg asks. Too many things have come out of Sherlock’s mouth for his brain to want to process it all, but for some reason he’s hung up on this, because it is terrifying and flattering in equal parts.

 

Sherlock stands, and looks down his nose at Greg imperiously. Then he pulls down a roll of white paper from who knows where and brandishes a marker.

 

“Now, we’re going to brainstorm,” he threatens.


	13. As Kim says, 'lighting is everything'

“I love you.”

 

Mark frowns, then tries again, voice wavering a bit this time.

 

“I love you,” he says, earnest and emotional. It sounds very convincing. His reflection in the mirror just eats it up. “I love you.”

 

John squints at the man from behind a ficus in the shared mansion, and then whispers into the mic-comms Anthea had sewn into his jacket collar.

 

“I think he might be a narcissist,” John reports. 

 

Back in the control room, Sherlock rolls his eyes. Anthea doesn’t even bother.

 

“I thought the kiss was very sweet,” she says, pinning a headshot of Mark onto their conspiracy board. “We should keep him on a few more episodes. I bet he has fans!”

 

“We’re not  _ here _ to create an award-winning show, Anthea, we’re here to get my brother committed!” Sherlock sulks, kicking the desk a bit. Anthea frowns at him. “That didn’t come out right.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“What? Why do you have your plotting face on? What?”

 

Anthea thumbs through the contestant files, and then holds up a headshot of Elliot.

 

“He’s hot.”

 

“No.”

 

“What?”

 

“Absolutely not. He was a chef, a famous one, ergo, drug problem.”

 

Anthea does a double-take.

 

“How’d he get on? We did background checks!”

 

“For the  _ drama _ of it all,” Sherlock says darkly. 

 

Anthea scoffs. “Yes, heaven forbid there be  _ drama, _ said Sherlock Holmes. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

 

“These producers are playing with my brother’s heart, circling like sharks who’ve sensed blood in the water at any opportunity to humiliate him on national television!”

 

“Didn’t you sign him up for this so you could do the same?”

 

“Well, yes, but I’m his brother! I have rights!”

 

“Yes, yes, but don’t lose sight of the fact that our ultimate goal, which is to let your brother have some fun, before he ends up with someone he  _ actually _ likes,” Anthea says, fanning herself with a picture of Arabella.

 

“Yeuch,” Sherlock says, sticking out his tongue. “She’s a bore. We don’t need two diplomats in the family.”

 

“They’d actually get along.”

 

“I want him to marry Lestrade.”

 

“That dishy DI?” Anthea pins up a photo of Arabella, and fishes out Lestrade to go beside her. “He’s  _ okay.” _

 

“He’s more than  _ okay, _ he’s Lestrade!”

 

Anthea hums.

 

“If we wanted Mycroft Holmes to end up with Greg Lestrade, there were easier ways to do so than to take over a popular reality show in its 27th season.”

 

“But what about the  _ drama _ ?” Sherlock asks, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. Anthea grins too, though she’s facing the board. Neither of them could resist.

 

“Point,” she says.

 

Anthea flips through the files some more, then holds up another headshot in Sherlock’s direction, expression pinched.

 

“And him!”

 

Sherlock’s expression darkens. “Moriarty.”

 

“Yeah, what the  _ hell _ are we going to do about him?” asks John, causing both Anthea and Sherlock to jump, as he’d been forgotten on the comms.

 

NOT JIM

 

Back in London for just a day before the cast and crew are set to jet off to the other side of the world (courtesy of their airline sponsors), Veronica tries to squeeze an extra date out of the schedule.

 

Which is how Mycroft finds himself at the zoo (they nixed his grocery shopping date idea, but he wasn’t trying very hard).

 

Jim smiles to himself, and points at a penguin beyond the glass enclosure. “That one looks like you.”

 

Mycroft fixes a suspicious stare upon him, which Jim ignores, because he’s too busy poking at the glass separating the visitors from the penguins. The penguin waddles imperiously up onto a ledge, away from the others, surveying the other, lesser penguins.

 

“They all look the same,” Mycroft can’t help but retort childishly.

 

“Well, then, they all look like you.”

 

Jim blinks, then turns a pleasant smile to Mycroft. There’s something about his posture that’s off. Even the slight incline of his head is wrong.

 

“What do you want to see next?” Jim asks.

 

Mycroft has to catch himself before he can stare (how rude!) and look off-kilter on camera. He tries to pull his pleasant, boring, diplomat persona on and finds it worryingly difficult. 

 

This is not the Jim he knows. He does not want to spend time with this Jim. 

 

Mycroft pinches his lips together; he has no good reason for this. Jim plays characters often enough, and Mycroft deals with them just fine. Mycroft has been wining and dining a whole buffet line of randos for over half a month now, and he’s done just fine. This Jim should be no different.

 

Mycroft pictures Arabella, and, pretending Jim is her, manages to repair his composure. 

 

The zoo date goes about as well as one can expect a zoo date to go. Jim is gentlemanly and pleasant, opening doors for Mycroft and asking all the right questions, and generally just being a great conversationalist, joking just the right amount and laughing oh so appropriately. They step on zero small children.

 

Mycroft finally puts his finger on the problem as they watch the sloths not move. This Jim is not so much a character as it is a Jim devoid of every Jim-like trait Mycroft knows. Every memory of any beloved quirk is gone, replaced with whatever  _ isn’t it. _

 

Jim reaches for Mycroft’s hand, as they cross the bridge to the section with the birds, and Mycroft lets him. 

 

He’d never, in public, let Jim before. If this bothers Jim, at all, he doesn’t show it. 

 

It’s perfectly casual this time, and Mycroft has to admit this Jim is actually pretty smooth. And he’s sweet. He is not  _ his  _ Jim. 

 

Mycroft heart beats double-time as he considers the implications of his thoughts, glad that Jim has suddenly dropped his hand, and that his expression gives nothing away. 

 

This is possibly the most disappointing date he has been on all season, by far.

  
  


COMPLIMENT ME

 

“Hey, so um Sherlock, it was great how you...solved that murder. Do you want to come over and go over some cold cases?” Greg asks tentatively. He fiddles with a napkin.

 

Sherlock’s lips twitch in an almost involuntary, small smile. Greg smiles back.

 

“Really?”

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

Then Sherlock slams his hands down on the small round table where they’re having a fake dinner, expression thunderous.

 

“No! Not Sherlock! What do you think we’re doing this for? Pretend I’m Mycroft!”

 

“Pretend you’re Mycroft?!” 

 

“Yes! Compliment me, as if I were Mycroft!”

 

Sherlock recomposes himself. Greg stares, and prays for inspiration. He’s done a lot of weird favors for Sherlock before, no questions asked, but right now he has a ton of questions.

 

“Maybe it’d help if you, uh. Acted like Mycroft…?” He’s not sure what he’s going for either.

 

Sherlock scoffs.

 

“What, you want me to act fat?”

 

Greg makes a face. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“And your brother’s not fat!” he adds, as a sort of confused afterthought.

 

“Compliment me,” Sherlock insists.

 

“You? Or Mycroft?” Greg asks in frustration.

 

Sherlock groans loudly, and puts his head down into the empty soup bowl in front of him, moaning something that sounds a bit like  _ WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS _ .

  
  


EVERYONE IS CHEATING

 

Out of all the nutcase contestants on set, Elliot is not the one Veronica expects to nearly incapacitate a PA as he pushes his way through the crew to get to her to file a complaint.

 

He flashes her a truly silver screen worthy smile.

 

“Let’s talk somewhere more comfortable, shall we?” he asks.

 

She nods at the nervous PA to let him know she’s got things handled, and then shows him into what is basically a supply closet, because despite the chaos they’ve gotten themselves into, she’s not about to let a contestant see the season outline or any information on the others.

 

“Yep, what’s up?” she asks. She likes Elliot. He’s gorgeous in a rugged, masculine way, and cleans up  _ very _ nice. She thinks Elliot will do wonders for their ratings - and perhaps even make Mycroft Holmes blush.

 

So far, besides perhaps Janine, he’s only been on dates with these meek, polite characters, and Veronica, no, the  _ show, _ is starved for drama.

 

“Not doing so hot, if I’m being honest,” he says, crossing his arms in a way that really emphasizes his biceps. She has to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Clearly he knows his angles.

 

“Well, what’s the matter?”

 

He rolls his eyes and the facade drops, just for a moment.

 

“Look, I don’t know what kind of show you’re running here but what’s with the dates? I’ve gotten like  _ no _ facetime with the guy, I’ve just been sitting around for, what, two weeks? It’s humiliating.”

 

Veronica widens her eyes, as if this is news to her too.

 

“What, really?” She thinks it over. “He  _ is _ a bit controlling over the schedule, it’s thrown some of the dates out of whack. He must be so overwhelmed...”

 

“Well, he needs to relax. He’s brought his goddamned office on set, can you believe that?”

 

She bites her lip, then glances at him.

 

“Oh my god, you’re right. That’s a great idea, you should just go for it,” she says, excited all of a sudden. “Not an official date, but just, you know, go into the kitchen, grab a bottle of wine, maybe meet him on the grounds.”

 

Elliot looks intrigued.

 

“Just sneak out with him,” he says, the idea growing on him. 

 

“Well, yeah. If you tried to do something like that in his office, he’d just feel cornered. But come on, the weather is  _ perfect. _ Everyone could use a break…”

  
  


THIS IS WHY PEOPLE DRINK

 

The zoo date leaves Mycroft feeling both cold and vulnerable, and he barely has the wherewithal to protest an extra dinner date being squeezed into the schedule when Veronica thrusts the event upon him.

 

Though it is quite early for a dinner, he even nods off in the car. Mycroft blinks, still disoriented, when the driver opens the door for him having arrived at the restaurant before he realized.

 

Mycroft is sat down across from one Philip Anderson, whom Sherlock seems to have such a burning hatred for, that the forensic specialist’s reputation really proceeds him. 

 

But Mycroft is sure that even if he had not been feeling upset and slightly nauseated, this rambling, pale-faced man seated across from him wouldn’t have made much of an entertaining date.

 

His powers of deductive reasoning tell him they have no common interest and have incompatible temperaments, but how he knows that he has no idea. Mycroft can’t be bothered to sort through the evidence before him right now, because the walls of the two-star restaurant feel like they are closing in on him.

 

It’s not the cameras, or the lights, or Anderson. Or so he tells himself. 

 

He’s braved terrible dates with nearly every one of the remaining contestants, and this is no different.

 

_ Mycroft Holmes _ .  _ Pull yourself together. _

 

The mental scolding doesn’t work.

 

A moment later, he finds himself rising from his seat, and then his legs are taking him out the restaurant of their own accord.

  
  


I HEARD YOU LIKED BAD BOYS

 

The sound of a motorcycle engine revving brings him back to reality the moment he sets foot outside the restaurant. 

 

Even with a helmet on, Mycroft recognizes the man on the bike as one of the other contestants, and, really, he could care less which one at this point because he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he if doesn’t leave now the cameras are going to catch up to him and require an explanation.

 

He accepts the helmet from the outstretched hand, and hops on the bike behind him.

 

And off they go - at a speed that would’ve made Mycroft hurl if he hadn’t been so relieved for the escape route.

 

They move from city to dirt roads and up mountain until they come to a clearing that Mycroft thinks is almost a pity to go unfilmed. The plateau looks out over the city and the setting sun in a way that is reminiscent of the romantic escapism of Hollywood high schoolers. A deep, rosy sky wraps around them and makes Mycroft nostalgic for a type of youth he never had. He thinks it’s the residual adrenaline from the unexpected escape talking.

 

Elliot takes Mycroft’s helmet and sets it on the handlebars, then finally takes off his own. 

 

No man has the right to smile like that. Mycroft’s stomach does a sort of awkward somersault, and he lays a hand over it, trying to convince himself it’s just because he’s missed dinner.

 

“I suppose I should thank you for your timing,” Mycroft says, still breathless.

 

Elliot laughs. “I didn’t think you’d come so easy.”

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but the laughter is infectious, though his own is nervous. As in on the verge of a nervous breakdown, moreso than anxiety. He tries to turn it around and get a handle on his emotions once again.

 

“And what would you have done if I hadn’t been rushing out the establishment right then, charge in and declare an objection? Were we to elope?”

 

Elliot just smiles, and it’s all too knowing for Mycroft’s liking. 

 

“Nah, didn’t really have a plan,” he finally says, just sheepish enough to be acquiescing to Mycroft’s need to be in control. He even lays his jacket out for Mycroft to sit on, as they survey the city.

 

“Here, I brought you something.”

 

Mycroft turns to see Elliot pull out a bottle of tequila.

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Not my usual fare, but.” Considering the circumstances.

 

Elliot leans over behind Mycroft and, after digging through the pockets of his jacket, pulls out a shotglass.

 

“Ah, shit. Lost the other one, I think,” he says. Mycroft is ready to drink out of the bottle, with the day he had. He takes the shot anyway, downs it, and pours another one out for Elliot.

 

Elliot doesn’t ask about what’s gotten to him. He doesn’t ask about the show. Mycroft chews on the newfound knowledge that this man, who he’d written off as a sensation-seeking risk taker, is astoundingly astute. Then again, grifters are too.

 

His heart clenches at that, and he takes another shot, pushing the niggling half-formed thought away.

 

He’s sure if they had all the accouterments - salt, sliced limes - it might have happened sooner; he can picture Elliot holding the rind of the fruit between his teeth and goading him into taking a bite. As it is, it still doesn’t take long before one of them - Mycroft thinks it actually might be him - takes the other’s face in hand and leans in for a kiss that is in no way chaste. 

 

Elliot returns it, equal parts skillful and filthy, and soon their hands are on each other - Mycroft enjoys gripping the man’s hair, and pulling his head back so that he can get at his jaw. 

 

The bottle of liquor tips over, forgotten. 

 

They completely miss the actual sunset, but the darkening sky urges the two to break apart.

 

“We should be getting back,” Mycroft says.

 

“Mm,” Elliot says. “Wouldn’t want to get in trouble for stealing you away.”

 

Mycroft finds it surprisingly difficult to muster up a smile.

  
  


LONG DAY’S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT

 

Of all the people to possibly intercept Mycroft on what is starting to feel a bit like a walk of shame, Mycroft is actually glad to see that it is John.

 

“John,” he says, surprised at the man waiting outside his room. Standing guard, really.

 

John blinks in surprise.

 

“Are - are you drunk?”

 

Was it so obvious?

 

“No,” he says. On misery, perhaps. They hadn’t actually had much to drink. But John’s already rushed off, and comes back with a bottle of water left on the table at the end of the hall. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

The man is clearly here to ask something, but with the fidgeting and uncertainty and number of false starts, Sherlock obviously hadn’t given him specific instruction.

 

Ah. He’s here of his own initiative. On yet another poor and unsubtle fact finding mission of his. At least he’s not wearing a tweed jacket, this time.

 

Mycroft reaches for his door, then stops. Perhaps he  _ is _ drunk.

 

“I’d invite you in, but…”

 

“Yes, yes, cameras, rules and all that. I get it,” John says easily. 

 

Mycroft frowns. 

 

“So do you um, are you happy with him?” John asks, getting it out all at once. 

 

He  _ panics _ .

 

“Who?” Mycroft asks. Stupid, amateur move. He tries to look imposing. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work.

 

“Mark,” John says. He looks a bit sheepish now. “The kiss-”

 

Of course they all knew about the kiss. He rubs his sleeve cuff over his lips in a classic guilty giveaway move. It would have fooled no one but John Watson. His lips are kiss-swollen, and he is probably still flushed.

 

“Sherlock reviewed it, he - and your assistant - were quite surprised. It’s a bit early, isn’t it? In the show, I mean. Or so they tell me. I don’t know how your dates usually go.” John laughs. “I can’t say my first dates don’t often end with a kiss - it’s not so strange if you think of it like that, is it?”

 

_ Mark _ . He’d completely forgotten about Mark. Mycroft could laugh. He  _ does _ laugh, and it’s a dry, humorless sound.

 

“Oh,” he says, tired.

 

John squints, assessing.

 

“Not happily in love, then?”

 

Mycroft’s expression is answer enough. 

 

“So, why?” John asks, hesitating a moment, before thinking back to Sherlock, and the Holmes’s self-professed allergies to affection. “So why did you kiss him?”

 

“Because the lighting was perfect,” Mycroft answers wryly. It startles a laugh out of John.

 

“ _ Do _ you like him though?” John asks out of genuine consideration. “I - we could look into him, if that helps.”

  
And  _ that _ makes  _ Mycroft _ laugh. 


	14. INTERMISSION

Jim and Mycroft don’t start “dating” so much as they start an elaborate game of one-upmanship disguised as a sort of courtship.

 

It’s all  _ “look, I put terrorists on a plane and you can’t do a thing about it! Aren’t I impressive,” _ and  _ “oh, you brought a smuggling ring into London to wreak havoc? Well it’s been infiltrated now and it’s a damn good source of intelligence,”  _ and so on and so forth.

 

It escalates, to some degree, especially in terms of childishness. Like blowing raspberries at CCTVs. Or instructing spies to trick double agents into using many, silly puns.

 

It takes several years before Mycroft and Jim even decide that it might be worthwhile to engage in this bizzaro dialogue in the same location. Maybe even inside the same building, or, God forbid, face to face. 

 

And even then, it’s…nontraditional to say the least. 

 

It’s things like,  _ “Christie’s auction at 8? If you want to see how much a forged Monet goes for. I’ll put on something pretty.” _ and  _ “There’s an election results viewing party at the Lanesborough, if you’d like to see your candidate lose. Over drinks.” _

 

And even then, it’s not really sex. It’s also horribly infrequent. Until Jim makes the horrible mistake of asking him to dinner - just dinner - for the first time, and they fly halfway around the world for it.


	15. It will be a slow, agonizing death

“If I have to be confined in a metal contraption with these people for twelve hours, I shall waste away into nothing. It will be a slow, agonizing death.”

 

Anthea looks up from her phone at her boss, who is reclined in a wingback chair, hand over his eyes as some intern finishes packing his things for him.

 

“I’ll take care of it,” she says without missing a beat.

 

She’s not stupid. Mycroft Holmes is not built to socialize endlessly. It was only a matter of time before he insisted on barricading himself in his rooms and reading pending legislation line by line in order to keep himself sane.

 

She’d have to be the world’s worst assistant to not have known this would happen and not have already booked a private jet for the trip today. The rest and the cast and crew would fly separately - Sherlock included.

 

_Are you saying_

_I have to fly_

_commercial?????_

_??????_

_SH_

 

_When my own_

_brother, my_

_very own brother,_

_has access to_

_a private jet?????_

_SH_

 

Anthea taps out _Yes._ and hits send.

 

Mycroft mutters, quite plaintively, “why does everyone seem to care so much about who I kiss?”

 

.

 

After a fitful night of self-loathing, Mycroft is almost grateful for the 12-hour flight. He’ll take a few pills and sink into unconsciousness, rather than reliving vividly another particular trip to Asia.

 

And despite this meaning Mycroft will be hidden on a plane, alone for the next half day, he dresses. He dresses impeccably. Soft clothes and loungewear will not soothe his anxieties and doubts.

 

He needs this, the ritual of buttoning each button, fastening clasps, tying his tie, and pinning it in place. He picks his favorite patterns, colors, and accessories to match. Each layer he’s dressed up in reminds him who he presents himself to be, to the world at large. He tucks away the soft hearted fool who’s been rattled by a few dates, and polishes the veneer.

 

This is work, he reminds himself. He is going to Asia for work. Because the last time he went to Asia for pleasure, well-

 

Anthea is somewhere at the other end of the jet, and Mycroft leans back to let the seats opposite him block out the view. He lowers the shade, unwilling to look at his own reflection. Three and a half decades of practice schooling his appearance, and one stupid date and he isn’t sure he can manage it now.

 

He lets sleep claim him.

 

.

 

 _“You seem to have an odd habit of dragging me to the great outdoors,” Mycroft says, with a put-upon frown as he surveys the exotic foliage overhead. It only makes Jim laugh, and lean into him. It’s a mountain trail and it is_ humid _, to the point where fog covers the sky and one of the large leaves drips condensation right on his nose._

 

_Granted, Jim is right. At the end of this trail, there is a spectacular view. For such a tiny country, Taiwan has thus far offered great geographical range._

 

_“Should I be worried about being buried somewhere faraway and hard to find?” Mycroft says, rubbing his nose._

 

_Jim peers over his shoulder._

 

_“What, with all these tourists?” he asks ironically._

 

_The last pair they’d passed a kilometer ago. They’re blissfully alone. Jim snakes his hand down Mycroft’s arm until finds his hand in his pocket, and wraps it with his own. Mycroft glances over, more casually than he actually feels._

 

_Mycroft wriggles his hand free until he can intertwine their fingers. And then he does it again, later at the inn, as they’re fucking so hard they fall out of the bed._

 

_._

 

_Two days after they land, there is a minor terror incident. Minor, because it was so well contained. Most of the damage is hid from the public, but that an attacker had managed to bypass government security to the location bears serious examining. Thankfully, the press reports are laughably opaque. No casualties, and only two injuries._

 

_One of them is Mycroft._

 

_He ends up in hospital, where his brother barges in not long after, worked up to a frenzy. He refuses to sit by Mycroft’s bedside. He also refuses to leave, and so Mycroft ends up with a dark and terrifying figure that stalks the halls just outside his room for the entire duration of his stay._

 

_He is surprised to find he’s been waiting for Jim to call. Surely he’d have known. Or perhaps not - such a bungled, inelegant attempt at mayhem was quite unlike his typical work._

 

_He’s not worried. He is home by the end of the week and barely limping. By now he would have known. Mycroft finds himself looking at his phone more than usual. But he doesn’t call._

 

_It’s another two weeks before Mycroft musters up the courage himself to make contact. If nothing else, to send a gift for the trip._

 

_“What?”_

 

_Mycroft startles at Jim’s short tone. So much so that he speaks before thinking, revealing quite a stupid hand._

 

_“I hadn’t heard from you, I was worried,” Mycroft says. Of what? He doesn’t want to examine it._

 

_Jim sighs. He sounds distracted. “Worry? Bit unnecessary for you, don’t you think? Don’t you have other things on your plate, sorting our national security and all? And me, well, it’s not like we’re boyfriends, or anything so inane.”_

 

_Mycroft’s caught off-guard. He’s caught Jim at a bad time. He regrets the call is untraceable._

 

_“Right,” Mycroft says. They hang up._

_  
_ _He sinks down in his chair, replaying the words in his head._

 

_Mycroft has no idea what’s brought this on._

 

_._

 

He startles awake and realizes the jet has already landed for quite a while.

 

“We’ve already checked into the hotel, if you’d like to go,” Anthea says from several seats away. “The other flight had...delays. They’ll be another two, three hours.”

 

Mycroft affords her a small smile, and collects his things.

 

.

 

Mycroft lets himself enjoy the room's amenities in silence, knowing very well that he won't get a moment of peace once the cast and crew arrive, no matter how nice the hot tub or how soft the robes.

 

He's sadly proven correct immediately, as he steps out of his room intending to intercept Veronica before she could him.

 

Instead, Mycroft comes face to face with John Watson.

 

He frowns down at him.

 

“You're early taking this security detail seriously,” Mycroft says disapprovingly, though he is attempting to smile.

 

John laughs, unreprimanded. “Well, I am a soldier.”

 

He stops, and checks around them for privacy before continuing.

 

“Um. So. I noticed you went on a date with M- Jim.”

 

Mycroft freezes. That's right, he'd kidnapped Dr. Watson and threatened his life. It's a wonder he hadn't asked earlier - Sherlock must have intervened.

 

John gives him a sheepish smile then.

 

“Yeah, we had a bit of an...encounter.”

 

_CUT TO:_

_The full cast of contestant mosey around near the craft table as people wait for hair and makeup._

 

_Jim munches on a celery stick, making polite conversation with Janine, as John spots him._

 

_In the next second, John is a blur, tackling Jim over the buffet table of food, yelling obscenities that are covered by the shrieks of panic from the others around them._

 

_Three security guys keep him from hitting the man, but boy those sandwiches are done for. John is yelling something the networks would have to censor anyhow._

 

John sighs.

 

“Yeah, Sherlock explained how it was just an actor hired by the real Moriarty, that you'd found out after hauling him off to interrogation - thanks for the assist by the pool, by the way - and that this show is part of the deal to help cement his new identity. Assuming Moriarty wouldn't go after someone so public I mean. But you don't think he's using you?”

 

Mycroft blinks rapidly, trying to follow this story his brother (assistant?) evidently cooked up.

 

“That is...very kind of you,” Mycroft says, squinting, trying to stave off a migraine. He'll have to interrogate them himself later.

 

John doesn't just take the hint of approval as Mycroft hoped. Instead, he presses on, all worried-like and full of concern. Mycroft starts to walk, in hopes that once they reach a more public area of the resort, John will refrain from prying.

 

“I'm sure he’s not capable of anything of the sort,” Mycroft says, hoping it is dismissive enough of an answer.

 

John frowns, pensive. “Anyone capable of playing Moriarty…”

 

The last thing Mycroft needs is John acting as if he is capable of security detail. Overview planning is not his strong suit.

 

“But anyway, that’s not fair to you, is it?” John asks, looking up at him. Mycroft is surprised at the earnestness, and it takes a moment before he realizes what John is referring to. “It cuts down the chances of you finding someone to fall in love with. I mean, I’m already taking up one of the spots, and, well I mean, even Anderson was here.”

 

Mycroft has to laugh at that, no matter how much he realizes it isn’t funny.

 

“Even if I were capable of finding love, network television is not where I’d find it.”

 

John laughs too, thinking this a joke. “How would you know?”

 

“Hm. Some people are perhaps not capable of the ‘happily ever afters’ the franchise peddles. Or perhaps undeserving.”

 

John gives him a stern, disapproving look at that, as if he had any right.

 

Mycroft is saved by the fact that they are indeed surrounded by people now, with the crew still unloading in the lobby and the cast waiting to get to their rooms to freshen up. No doubt Veronica already has events planned, then.

 

By mere accident, Mycroft catches Greg’s eye from across the room - still that deer in headlights look. Greg gives him a very nervous smile.

 

This is going to be a long trip.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stg the fic is plotted


End file.
